“He lays himself down there at the dusk hour, and I cannot get him up again.  I try to persuade him to use the sofa, but it is of no use.”

“The floor will not hurt him,” said Mr. Carlyle. This was the dark shade:  his boy’s failing health.

William opened his eyes.  “Who’s that—­papa?”

“Don’t you feel well, William?”

“Oh, yes, I’m very well; but I am tired.”

“Why do you lie down here?”

“I like lying here.  Papa, that pretty white rabbit of mine is dead.”

“Indeed.  Suppose you get up and tell me all about it.”

“I don’t know about it myself yet,” said William, softly rising.  “The gardener told Lucy when she was out just now:  I did not go; I was tired.  He said—­”

“What has tired you?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, taking hold of the boy’s hand.

“Oh, nothing.  I am always tired.”

“Do you tell Mr. Wainwright that you are tired?”

“No.  Why should I tell him?  I wish he would not order me to take that nasty medicine, that cod liver oil.”

“But it is to make you strong, my boy.”

“It makes me sick.  I always feel sick after it, papa.  Madame Vine says I ought to have cream.  That would be nice.”

“Cream?” repeated Mr. Carlyle, turning his eyes on Madame Vine.

“I have known cream to do a great deal of good in a case like William’s,” she observed.  “I believe that no better medicine can be given; that it has in fact no substitute.”

“It can be tried,” said Mr. Carlyle.

“Pray give your orders, Madame Vine, for anything you think may be beneficial to him,” Mrs. Carlyle added.  “You have had more experience with children than I. Joyce—­”

“What does Wainwright say?” interrupted Mr. Carlyle, speaking to his wife, in his low tone.

“I do not always see him when he comes, Archibald.  Madame Vine does, I believe.”

“Oh, dear!” cried Lucy, “can’t we have tea?  I want some bread and jam.”

Mr. Carlyle turned round, smiled and nodded at her.  “Patience is good for little girls, Miss Lucy.  Would you like some bread and jam, my boy?”

William shook his head.  “I can’t eat jam.  I am only thirsty.”

Mr. Carlyle cast a long and intent look at him, and then left the room.  Lady Isabel followed him, her thoughts full of her ailing child.

“Do you think him very ill, sir?” she whispered.

“I think he looks so.  What does Mr. Wainwright say?”

“He says nothing to me.  I have not inquired his true condition.  Until to-night it did not come to me that there was any apprehension.”

“Does he look so much worse to-night?”

“Not any worse than customary.  Latterly he had looked just like this in the evening.  It was a remark of Hannah’s that roused my alarm:  she thinks he is on the road to death.  What can we do to save him?”

She clasped her hands as she spoke, in the intensity of her emotion.  She almost forgot, as they stood there together talking of the welfare of the child, their child, that he was no longer her husband.  Almost, not quite, utterly impossible would it be for her wholly to forget the dreadful present.  Neither he nor the child could again belong to her in this world.