The earl unconsciously sought a refuge from it by turning the leaves of a book upon the table, which was a complete edition of Harry Denham’s Poems, with a preface by a man named Lydiard; and really, to read the preface one would suppose that these poets were the princes of the earth.  Lord Romfrey closed the volume.  It was exquisitely bound, and presented to Miss Denham by the Mr. Lydiard.  ’The works of your illustrious father,’ was written on the title-page.  These writers deal queerly with their words of praise of one another.  There is no law to restrain them.  Perhaps it is the consolation they take for the poor devil’s life they lead!

A lady addressing him familiarly, invited him to go upstairs.

He thanked her.  At the foot of the stairs he turned; he had recognized Cecilia Halkett.

Seeing her there was more strange to him than being there himself; but he bowed to facts.

‘What do you think?’ he said.

She did not answer intelligibly.

He walked up.

The crazed gabbling tongue had entire possession of the house, and rang through it at an amazing pitch to sustain for a single minute.

A reflection to the effect that dogs die more decently than we men, saddened the earl.  But, then, it is true, we shorten their pangs by shooting them.

A dismal figure loomed above him at the head of the stairs.

He distinguished it in the vast lean length he had once whipped and flung to earth.

Dr. Shrapnel was planted against the wall outside that raving chamber, at the salient angle of a common prop or buttress.  The edge of a shoulder and a heel were the supports to him sideways in his distorted attitude.  His wall arm hung dead beside his pendent frock-coat; the hair of his head had gone to wildness, like a field of barley whipped by tempest.  One hand pressed his eyeballs:  his unshaven jaw dropped.

Lord Romfrey passed him by.

The dumb consent of all present affirmed the creature lying on the bed to be Nevil Beauchamp.

Face, voice, lank arms, chicken neck:  what a sepulchral sketch of him!

It was the revelry of a corpse.

Shudders of alarm for his wife seized Lord Romfrey at the sight.  He thought the poor thing on the bed must be going, resolving to a cry, unwinding itself violently in its hurricane of speech, that was not speech nor exclamation, rather the tongue let loose to run to the death.  It seemed to be out in mid-sea, up wave and down wave.

A nurse was at the pillow smoothing it.  Miss Denham stood at the foot of the bed.

‘Is that pain?’ Lord Romfrey said low to Dr. Gannet.

‘Unconscious,’ was the reply.

Miss Denham glided about the room and disappeared.

Her business was to remove Dr. Shrapnel, that he might be out of the way when Lord Romfrey should pass him again:  but Dr. Shrapnel heard one voice only, and moaned, ‘My Beauchamp!’ She could not get him to stir.