She is, you are aware, England’s greatest heiress.  Only yesterday, hearing of that poor man Mr. Warwick’s desperate attack of illness—­heart!—­and of his having no relative or friend to soothe his pillow,—­he is lying in absolute loneliness,—­she offered to go and nurse him!  Of course it could not be done.  It is not her place.  The beauty of the character of a dear innocent young girl, with every gratification at command, who could make the offer, strikes me as unparalleled.  She was perfectly sincere—­she is sincerity.  She asked at once, Where is he?  She wished me to accompany her on a first visit.  I saw a tear.’

Redworth had called at Lady Wathin’s for information of the state of Mr. Warwick, concerning which a rumour was abroad.  No stranger to the vagrant compassionateness of sentimentalists;—­rich, idle, conscience-pricked or praise-catching;—­he was unmoved by the tale that Miss Asper had proposed to go to Mr. Warwick’s sick-bed in the uniform of a Sister of Charity.—­’Speaking French!’ Lady Wathin exclaimed; and his head rocked, as he said: 

‘An Englishman would not be likely to know better.’

’She speaks exquisite French—­all European languages, Mr. Redworth.  She does not pretend to wit.  To my thinking, depth of sentiment is a far more feminine accomplishment.  It assuredly will be found a greater treasure.’

The modest man (modest in such matters) was led by degrees to fancy himself sounded regarding Miss Asper:  a piece of sculpture glacially decorative of the domestic mansion in person, to his thinking; and as to the nature of it—­not a Diana, with all her faults!

If Diana had any faults, in a world and a position so heavily against her!  He laughed to himself, when alone, at the neatly implied bitter reproach cast on the wife by the forsaken young lady, who proposed to nurse the abandoned husband of the woman bereaving her of the man she loved.  Sentimentalists enjoy these tricks, the conceiving or the doing of them—­the former mainly, which are cheaper, and equally effective.  Miss Asper might be deficient in wit; this was a form of practical wit, occasionally exhibited by creatures acting on their instincts.  Warwick he pitied, and he put compulsion on himself to go and see the poor fellow, the subject of so sublime a generosity.  Mr. Warwick sat in an arm-chair, his legs out straight on the heels, his jaw dragging hollow cheeks, his hands loosely joined; improving in health, he said.  A demure woman of middle age was in attendance.  He did not speak of his wife.  Three times he said disconnectedly, ‘I hear reports,’ and his eyelids worked.  Redworth talked of general affairs, without those consolatory efforts, useless between men, which are neither medicine nor good honest water:—­he judged by personal feelings.  In consequence, he left an invalid the sourer for his visit.

Next day he received a briefly-worded summons from Mrs. Warwick.