"Responsibility, my dear, will always be heavy."
"But it is hardly that;—certainly not that alone. It is the feeling that so many people blame him for so many things, and the doubt in his own mind whether he may not deserve it. And then he becomes fretful, and conscious that such fretfulness is beneath him and injurious to his honour. He condemns men in his mind, and condemns himself for condescending to condemn them. He spends one quarter of an hour in thinking that as he is Prime Minister he will be Prime Minister down to his fingers' ends, and the next in resolving that he never ought to have been Prime Minister at all." Here something like a frown passed across the old man's brow, which was, however, no indication, of anger. "Dear Duke," she said, "you must not be angry with me. Who is there to whom I can speak but you?"
"Angry, my dear! No, indeed!"
"Because you looked as though you would scold me." At this he smiled. "And of course all this tells upon his health."
"Do you think he is ill?"
"He never says so. There is no special illness. But he is thin and wan and careworn. He does not eat and he does not sleep. Of course I watch him."
"Does his doctor see him?"
"Never. When I asked him once to say a word to Sir James Thorax,—for he was getting hoarse, you know,—he only shook his head and turned on his heels. When he was in the other House, and speaking every night, he would see Thorax constantly, and do just what he was told. He used to like opening his mouth and having Sir James to look down it. But now he won't let any one touch him."
"What would you have me do, Lady Glen?"
"I don't know."