"Thanks," said Sophy gravely.
This "thanks" seemed to irritate Lady Wychcote beyond endurance. She turned pale under her rouge, and bit the shreds of what had once been a lovely, though heartless, mouth.
"I don't doubt," she said at last, "that Hopkins's opinion will coincide with mine. I am convinced that the whole matter has been grossly exaggerated."
"Of course, only a doctor can be the judge of that," said Sophy, still quietly.
Lady Wychcote had reached the age when in mothers of her type the affections wane as the ambitions wax. She desired to have her pride satisfied rather than her heart filled. And of her two sons, one was an easy-going invalid, and the other a brilliant failure. She was bitterly thinking, as she bruised Sophy's spirit with her hard, implacable eyes, "If Cecil had married a clever woman of his own class and country—she could have made him. How many Englishmen have been made politically by their wives! Even Chatham—one never hears much of his wife, to be sure—but there's the fact. His first really active, successful part in politics was taken shortly after he married her."
When Dr. Hopkins came and had seen Cecil (he also requested to see him alone, and would have neither Sophy nor Lady Wychcote go in with him) he looked very grave, and stated that, in his opinion also, Mr. Chesney was suffering from the overuse of opiates.
"'Opiates'? That is an elastic term," said Lady Wychcote impatiently. "Say plainly what you mean, please."
Hopkins looked pained, but answered straightforwardly that, in his opinion also, Mr. Chesney was in the habit of taking morphine hypodermically.
"Why hypodermically?" asked Lady Wychcote.
"It is self-evident, your ladyship. His arms are in a terrible condition from the use of the syringe."