It was these recollections that softened her kindly tones to tenderness; made the pressure of her hand upon his temples a caress, rather than a manual appliance for deadening pain; while she combated his intention of appearing at the breakfast-table.

“Lie down upon the sofa!” she entreated.  “Let me bring up a cup of strong coffee for you; then darken the room, and chafe your head until you fall asleep, since you turn a deaf ear to all proposals of mustard foot-baths and Dr. Van Orden’s panacea pills.”

“No!” stubbornly.  “Aylett and Clara would think it strange.  They do not understand how a slight irregularity of diet or habit can produce such a result.  They would attribute it to other causes.  I may feel better when I have taken something nourishing.”

The dreaded critics received the tidings of his indisposition without cavil at its imputed origin, treated the whole subject with comparative indifference, which would have mortified him a week ago, but seemed now to assuage his unrest.  The breakfast hour was a quiet one.  Herbert could not attempt the form of eating, despite his expressed hope of the curative effects of nourishment, and sipped his black coffee at tedious intervals of pain, looking more ill after each.  Mabel was silent, and regardful of his suffering, while Mrs. Aylett toyed with the tea-cup, broke her biscuit into small heaps of crumbs upon her plate, and under her visor of ennui and indolent musing, kept her eye upon her vis-a-vis, whose face was opaque ice; and his intonations, when he deigned to speak, meant nothing save that he was controller of his own meditations, and would not be meddled with.

“You are not well enough to ride over to the Courthouse with me, Dorrance?” he said, interrogatively, his meal despatched.  “It is court-day, you know?”

“What do you say, Mabel?” was Herbert’s clumsy reference to his nurse.  “Don’t you think I might venture?”

“I would not, if I were in your place,” she replied, cautiously dissuasive.  “The day is raw, and there will be rain before evening.  Dampness always aggravates neuralgia.”

“It is neuralgia, then, is it?” queried Winston, shortly, drawing on his boots.

His sister looked up surprised.

“What else should it be?”

“Nothing—­unless the symptoms indicate softening of the brain!” he rejoined, with his slight, dissonant laugh.  “In either case, your decision is wise.  He is better off in your custody than he would be abroad.  I hope I shall find you convalescent when I return.  Good morning!”

His wife accompanied him to the outer door.

“It is chilly!” she shivered, as this was opened.  “Are you warmly clad, love?” feeling his overcoat.  “And don’t forget your umbrella.”

Her hand had not left his shoulder, and, in offering a parting kiss, she leaned her head there also.

“I wish you would not go!” she said impulsively and sincerely.