Laurence Wynne had not come across Mr. West for a considerable time; but he knew that the Wests were at Brighton, and that Miss West was almost convalescent. It was the end of October, London was filling, and he was lunching at his club, with one or two acquaintances at the same table, when one of them said—
“Hullo! there’s old West. I must go and have a word with him presently. He looks rather down; not half as smart and perky as last year.”
“He has lost a good deal of money!” observed the other.
“Yes; but not as much as is supposed. He is an uncommonly shrewd old boy, and knows when to save himself; but he can’t save himself from his present trouble. He is going to lose his daughter?”
“His what?” put in Wynne, quickly.
“Daughter. Surely you’ve heard of the lovely Miss West? She was the rage for two seasons. She got diphtheria in the summer, and——”
“Yes, yes; I know,” impatiently.
“Well, he took her down to Brighton, and she had a bad relapse of some kind. I was there on Saturday last, and I saw her. Her carriage had stopped at a shop I was coming out of. I give you my honour I had to look at her three times before I was sure of her; she has lost every particle of colour and flesh and beauty. She might be thirty-five, and gives one the idea of a person who had seen a ghost, and never got over it. Yes”—in answer to the expression of his listeners’ eyes—“it’s rather awful. She used to be so pretty; now she has death in her face.”
“Are you in earnest, Ruscombe?”
“Why, of course I am. Old West is in a deadly funk, and taking her off to Australia, as a sort of forlorn hope. But he will never get her there alive.”