I've told him not to; and you mustn't let it worry you, because what I had was my own and what I did with it my own business." "Anyway," observed Dysart, after a moment's reflection, "your family is wealthy." A darker flush stained Grandcourt's face; and Dysart's misinterpretation of his philosophy almost stung him into fierce retort; but as his heavy lips unclosed in anger, his eyes fell on Dysart's ravaged face, and he sat silent, his personal feelings merged in an evergrowing anxiety.
"Why do you cough like that, Jack ?" he demanded after a paroxysm had shaken the other into an armchair, where he lay sweating and panting: "It's a cold," Dysart managed to say; "been hanging on for a month." "Three months," said Grandcourt tersely.

"Why don't you take care of it ?" There was a silence; nothing more was said about the cold; and presently Grandcourt drew a letter from his pocket and handed it silently to Dysart.

It was in Rosalie's handwriting, dated two months before, and directed to Dysart at Baltimore.

The post-office authorities had marked it, "No address," and had returned it a few days since to the sender.
These details Dysart noticed on the envelope and the heading of the first page; he glanced over a line or two, lowered the letter, and looked questioningly over it at Grandcourt: "What's it about ?--if you know," he asked wearily.

"I'm not inclined just now to read anything that may be unpleasant." Grandcourt said quietly: "I have not read the letter, but your wife has told me something of what it contains.