All this time Despard had not sat down, although between orders Mrs. Royce had more than once urged him to do so. He stood, having shut the door behind him, leaning the point of his shoulder against the wall.
Utterly undisturbed by his calm eyes fixed upon her, Mrs. Royce said:
“Poor Churchley, he has been with us for six years, but I’m afraid I can’t keep him. He forgets everything.”
“He’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown,” answered Despard coolly, and he added: “The housemaid is a pronounced neurasthenic. As for your daughter——”
“Ah, Celia, poor, dear child! Must we send her away?” her mother asked, but before the doctor had time to answer, Churchley, by a miracle of celerity, again entered, this time bearing toast of the desired complexion.
After he had finally disappeared, Mrs. Royce busied herself with flame and kettle and tea-caddy before she repeated her question, and her voice had in it a faint sediment of these preoccupations:
“I hope you do not think it necessary to send Celia away, Dr. Despard?”
He drew a chair forward and sat down. “No, Mrs. Royce,” he said; “I think it necessary to send you away.”
“Me?”
He bowed.