He loved Nan, and Nan did not love him. Well, there was an end of his domestic happiness. Fortunately, there was work to be done still, success to be achieved, prizes to win in the world of men. He was not going to sit down and despair because he had lost a woman's love. And so, with set lips and frowning brow he once more set to work, and this time with redoubled vigor; but he knew all the while that he was a very miserable man.
Perhaps if he had seen Nan crying over the flowers that she had just rejected, he might have hoped that there was still a chance of recovering the place in her heart which he had lost.
But after this short conversation life went on in the old ways. Sydney appeared to be more than ever engrossed in his work. Nan grew paler and stiller every day. Lady Pynsent became anxious and distressed.
"Sydney, what are you doing? what are you thinking about?" she said to him one day, when she managed to catch him for five minutes alone. "Don't you see how ill Nan is?"
"She looks ill; but she always says there is nothing the matter with her."
"That is a very bad sign. I hope you have made her consult a good doctor? There is Burrows—I should take her to him."
"Burrows! Why, he is a specialist!"
"Nan's mother died of decline. Burrows attended her."
Sydney went away with a new fear implanted in his heart.
Dr. Burrows was sent for, and saw his patient; but he did not seem able to form any definite opinion concerning her. He said a few words to Sydney, however, which gave him food for a good deal of reflection during the next day or two.