“Who says so?” he asked sharply.
“I thought you did not know her, man! The doctor who attends her happens to be my brother-in-law; and, of course, we are all interested in the beauty. He has a very poor opinion——Oh, are you off? The fellow is mad. He hasn’t touched a morsel. What the dickens!—Oh, ho! Now, what does that mean—he is button-holing the old squatter himself?”
“No, Wynne, not seen you for ages,” Mr. West was saying. “I never come to the club. No spirits for anything. My daughter is ill—got a sort of relapse. The doctors say that she has some trouble on her mind—must have had a shock. Extraordinary case! She has never had a care in her life!”
Mr. Wynne made no answer, and looked down.
“She can’t get up any strength, and—and takes no notice of anything, does not want to recover, and is just fading away!”
“Ah, that’s bad! I suppose you have the best advice that is possible?”
What a nice, kind fellow Wynne was! When one was in trouble he quite took it to heart too; he appeared—or was it the bad light—actually grave and anxious.
“I’m taking her to Sydney, to try the effect of the sea and change; it’s just a chance—a last chance.”
“And when do you start?” he asked, taking out his handkerchief and wiping his brow.
“The day after to-morrow, in the Victoria. We go from Tilbury Docks; as she couldn’t stand the journey across, and, in fact, the more sea the better. A lady friend is very kindly coming as her companion, just for the trip; but Madeline and I will not return to England for a year or two. I’ll see how her native climate will suit her.”