And had the doctor but known it, sympathy was a thing she had not borne well these many years.
"I asked you was he dying," she reminded him, with a cold sternness that beat aside all his attempts at subterfuge.
"Your ladyship--he is dead," he faltered, with lowered eyes.
"Dead ?" she echoed dully, and her hand went to the region of her heart, her face turned livid under its rouge.

"Dead ?" she said again, and behind her, Rotherby echoed the dread word in a stupor almost equal to her own.

Her lips moved to speak, but no words came.

She staggered where she stood, and put her hand to her brow.

Her son's arms were quickly about her.