The doctor cast his eyes on the governess as he spoke; the injunction concerned her as much as it did Mr. Carlyle.  And the doctor started, for he thought she was fainting; her face had become so ghastly white; he could see it through her veil.

“You are ill, madame!  You are ill? Trouve malade, don’t you?”

She opened her lips to speak; her trembling lips, that would not obey her.  Dr. Martin, in his concern, pulled off the blue spectacles.  She caught them from him with one hand, sat down on the nearest chair, and hid her face with the other.

Mr. Carlyle, scarcely understanding the scuffle, came forward.  “Are you ill, Madame Vine?”

She was putting her spectacles under her veil, her face whiter than ever.  “Pray do not interrupt your conversation to pay attention to me!  I thank you; I thank you both.  I am subject to—­slight spasms, and they do make me look ill for the moment.  It has passed now.”

The doctor turned from her; Mr. Carlyle resumed his place by the window.  “What should be the treatment?” asked the latter.

“Almost anything you please—­that the boy himself likes.  Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and drink, or let it alone; it cannot make much difference.”

“Doctor!  You yield it, as a last hope, very lightly.”

Dr. Martin shook his head.  “I speak as I know.  You insisted on having my true opinion.”

“A warmer climate?” suggested Mr. Carlyle eagerly, the idea crossing his mind.

“It might prolong the end for a little while—­a few weeks, perhaps—­avert it it could not.  And who could take him?  You could not go; and he has no mother.  No!  I should not advise it.”

“I wish you would see Wainwright—­with reference to William.”

“I have seen him.  I met him this afternoon, by chance, and told him my opinion.  How is Mrs. Carlyle?”

“Pretty well.  She is not in robust health, you are aware, just now.”

Dr. Martin smiled.  “These things will happen.  Mrs. Carlyle has a thoroughly good constitution; a far stronger one than—­than——­”

“Than what?” said Mr. Carlyle, wondering why he hesitated.

“You must grant me pardon.  I may as well finish, now I have begun; but I was not thinking when I spoke.  She is stronger than was Lady Isabel.  I must be off to catch the six train.”

“You will come over from time to time to East Lynne to see William?”

“If you wish it.  It may be a satisfaction, perhaps. Bon jour, madame.”

Lady Isabel bowed to him as he left the room with Mr. Carlyle.  “How fond that French governess of yours is of the boy!” the doctor whispered, as they crossed the hall.  “I detected it when she brought him to Lynneborough.  And you saw her just now!  That emotion was all because he could not live.  Good-bye.”

Mr. Carlyle grasped his hand.  “Doctor, I wish you could save him!” he passionately uttered.