of her aunt—­when she is restored I escort her to the station again—­she travels to this place, and her own maid (who is now under your roof) receives her at the carriage-door.  Here is comfort consulted—­here are the interests of propriety consulted—­here is your own duty—­duty of hospitality, sympathy, protection, to an unhappy lady in need of all three—­ smoothed and made easy, from the beginning to the end.  I cordially invite you, sir, to second my efforts in the sacred interests of the family.  I seriously advise you to write, by my hands, offering the hospitality of your house (and heart), and the hospitality of my house (and heart), to that injured and unfortunate lady whose cause I plead to-day.”

He waved his horrid hand at me—­he struck his infectious breast—­ he addressed me oratorically, as if I was laid up in the House of Commons.  It was high time to take a desperate course of some sort.  It was also high time to send for Louis, and adopt the precaution of fumigating the room.

In this trying emergency an idea occurred to me—­an inestimable idea which, so to speak, killed two intrusive birds with one stone.  I determined to get rid of the Count’s tiresome eloquence, and of Lady Glyde’s tiresome troubles, by complying with this odious foreigner’s request, and writing the letter at once.  There was not the least danger of the invitation being accepted, for there was not the least chance that Laura would consent to leave Blackwater Park while Marian was lying there ill.  How this charmingly convenient obstacle could have escaped the officious penetration of the Count, it was impossible to conceive—­but it had escaped him.  My dread that he might yet discover it, if I allowed him any more time to think, stimulated me to such an amazing degree, that I struggled into a sitting position—­seized, really seized, the writing materials by my side, and produced the letter as rapidly as if I had been a common clerk in an office.  “Dearest Laura, Please come, whenever you like.  Break the journey by sleeping in London at your aunt’s house.  Grieved to hear of dear Marian’s illness.  Ever affectionately yours.”  I handed these lines, at arm’s length, to the Count—­I sank back in my chair—­I said, “Excuse me—­I am entirely prostrated—­I can do no more.  Will you rest and lunch downstairs?  Love to all, and sympathy, and so on.  Good-morning.”

He made another speech—­the man was absolutely inexhaustible.  I closed my eyes—­I endeavoured to hear as little as possible.  In spite of my endeavours I was obliged to hear a great deal.  My sister’s endless husband congratulated himself, and congratulated me, on the result of our interview—­he mentioned a great deal more about his sympathies and mine—­he deplored my miserable health—­he offered to write me a prescription—­he impressed on me the necessity of not forgetting what he had said about the importance of light—­he accepted my obliging invitation to rest and lunch—­he