“James,” said Geoffrey to the servant, “send the cook up here—­she is a sensible woman; and do you take a hansom and drive to the doctor, and tell him to come here at once, and if you cannot find him go for another doctor.  Then go to the Nurses’ Home, near St. James’ Station, and get a trained nurse—­tell them one must be had from somewhere instantly.”

“Yes, sir.  And shall I call for her ladyship at the duchess’s, sir?”

“No,” he answered, frowning heavily, “do not disturb her ladyship.  Go now.”

“That settles it,” said Geoffrey, as the man went.  “Whatever happens, Honoria and I must part.  I have done with her.”

He had indeed, though not in the way he meant.  It would have been well for Honoria if her husband’s contempt had not prevented him from summoning her from her pleasure.

The cook came up, and between them they brought the child back to life.

She opened her eyes and smiled.  “Is that you, daddy,” she whispered, “or do I dreams?”

“Yes, dear, it is I.”

“Where has you been, daddy—­to see Auntie Beatrice?”

“Yes, love,” he said, with a gasp.

“Oh, daddy, my head do feel funny; but I don’t mind now you is come back.  You won’t go away no more, will you, daddy?”

“No, dear, no more.”

After that she began to wander a little, and finally dropped into a troubled sleep.

Within half an hour both the doctor and the nurse arrived.  The former listened to Geoffrey’s tale and examined the child.

“She may pull through it,” he said, “she has got a capital constitution; but I’ll tell you what it is—­if she had lain another five minutes in that draught there would have been an end of her.  You came in the nick of time.  And now if I were you I should go to bed.  You can do no good here, and you look dreadfully ill yourself.”

But Geoffrey shook his head.  He said he would go downstairs and smoke a pipe.  He did not want to go to bed at present; he was too tired.

Meanwhile the ball went merrily.  Lady Honoria never enjoyed herself more in her life.  She revelled in the luxurious gaiety around her like a butterfly in the sunshine.  How good it all was—­the flash of diamonds, the odour of costly flowers, the homage of well-bred men, the envy of other women.  Oh! it was a delightful world after all—­that is when one did not have to exist in a flat near the Edgware Road.  But Heaven be praised! thanks to Geoffrey’s talents, there was an end of flats and misery.  After all, he was not a bad sort of husband, though in many ways a perfect mystery to her.  As for his little weakness for the Welsh girl, really, provided that there was no scandal, she did not care twopence about it.

“Yes, I am so glad you admire it.  I think it is rather a nice dress, but then I always say that nobody in London can make a dress like Madame Jules.  Oh, no, Geoffrey did not choose it; he thinks of other things.”