'Well ?' 'Father's ill--he's got a bad chest, and the doctor says he may be going into a consumption.' 'Doctors'll say anything!' cried Fenwick, wrathfully.

'If ever there was a strong man, it's your father.

Don't you believe any croaking of that sort, Phoebe.' She shook her head.
'He looks so changed,' she said; and began drawing with her finger on the tablecloth.

He saw that her lips were trembling.

A strong impulse worked in him, bidding him go to her again, kiss away her tears, and say--'Hang everything! Come with me to London, and let's sink or swim together.' Instead of which some perverse cross-current hurried him into the words: 'He'd be all right if you'd go and nurse him, Phoebe.' 'No, not at all.