“Anything more been done about the new hospital?” she asked.

“Oh, there are promises, but nothing really important.  It’ll cost far more money than there seems any chance as yet of getting.  We ought to buy that bit of land I told you about on Burgess Hill.  The price is high, but it’s a perfect situation, and I’m afraid it’ll be going to the builders if something isn’t soon done.”

Lady Ogram would have purchased the site in question long since, for it was her purpose to act decisively in this matter of the much-needed hospital, but it happened that the unspeakable Robb was the man who had first drawn public attention to the suitability of Burgess Hill, and Lady Ogram was little inclined to follow where Robb had led.  She hoped to find a yet better site, and, by undertaking at once both purchase of land and construction of the building, with a liberal endowment added, to leave in the lurch all philanthropic rivals.  For years she had possessed plans and pictures of “The Lady Ogram Hospital.”  She cared for no enterprise, however laudable, in which she could only be a sharer; the initiative must be hers, and hers the glory.

Discreetly, Dr. Baldwin worked round to the subject of his patient’s health.  He hoped she was committing no imprudence in the way of excessive mental exertion.  It seemed to him—­perhaps he was mistaken—­that talk agitated her more than usual.  Quiet and repose—­quiet and repose.

That afternoon Lady Ogram was obliged to lie down, a necessity she always disliked in the daytime, and for two or three days she kept her room.  Constance now and then read to her, but persuaded her to speak as little as possible of exciting subjects.  She saw no one but this companion.  Of late she had been in the habit of fixing her look upon Constance, as though much occupied with thoughts concerning her.  When she felt able to move about again, they sat together one morning on the terrace before the house, and Lady Ogram, after a long inspection of her companion’s countenance, asked suddenly: 

“Do you often hear from your father?”

“Not often.  Once in two months, perhaps.”

“I suppose you are not what is called a good daughter?”

Constance found the remark rather embarrassing, for it hit a truth of which she had been uneasily aware.

“Father and I have not much in common,” she replied.  “I respect him, and I hope he isn’t quite without some such feeling for me.  But we go such different ways.”

“Does he believe what he pretends to?”

“He has never made any pretences at all, Lady Ogram.  That’s his character, and I try to think that it’s mine too.”

“Well, well,” exclaimed the old lady, “I suppose you’re not going to quarrel with me because I ask a simple question?  You have a touchy temper, you know.  If I had had a temper like yours, I should have very few friends at my age.”

Constance averted her eyes, and said gravely: