A few mornings after this Mr. Carlyle left East Lynne and proceeded to his office as usual.  Scarcely was he seated, when Mr. Dill entered, and Mr. Carlyle looked at him inquiringly, for it was not Mr. Carlyle’s custom to be intruded upon by any person until he had opened his letters; then he would ring for Mr. Dill.  The letters and the Times newspaper lay on the table before him.  The old gentleman came up in a covert, timid sort of way, which made Mr. Carlyle look all the more.

“I beg pardon, sir; will you let me ask if you have heard any particular news?”

“Yes, I have heard it,” replied Mr. Carlyle.

“Then, sir, I beg your pardon a thousand times over.  It occurred to me that you probably had not, Mr. Archibald; and I thought I would have said a word to prepare you, before you came upon it suddenly in the paper.”

“To prepare me!” echoed Mr. Carlyle, as old Dill was turning away.  “Why, what has come to you, Dill?  Are you afraid my nerves are growing delicate, or that I shall faint over the loss of a hundred pounds?  At the very most, we shall not suffer above that extent.”

Old Dill turned back again.

“If I don’t believe you are speaking of the failure of Kent & Green!  It’s not that, Mr. Archibald.  They won’t affect us much; and there’ll be a dividend, report runs.”

“What is it, then?”

“Then you have not heard it, sir!  I am glad that I’m in time.  It might not be well for you to have seen it without a word of preparation, Mr. Archibald.”

“If you have not gone demented, you will tell me what you mean, Dill, and leave me to my letters,” cried Mr. Carlyle, wondering excessively at his sober, matter-of-fact clerk’s words and manner.

Old Dill put his hands upon the Times newspaper.

“It’s here, Mr. Archibald, in the column of deaths; the first on the list.  Please, prepare yourself a little before you look at it.”

He shuffled out quickly, and Mr. Carlyle as quickly unfolded the paper.  It was, as old Dill said, the first on the list of deaths: 

“At Cammere, in France, on the 18th inst., Isabel Mary, only child of William, late Earl of Mount Severn.”

Clients called; Mr. Carlyle’s bell did not ring; an hour or two passed, and old Dill protested that Mr. Carlyle was engaged until he could protest no longer.  He went in, deprecatingly.  Mr. Carlyle sat yet with the newspaper before him, and the letters unopened at his elbow.

“There are one or two who will come in, Mr. Archibald—­who will see you; what am I to say?”

Mr. Carlyle stared at him for a moment, as if his wits had been in the next world.  Then he swept the newspaper from before him, and was the calm, collected man of business again.