“Thank you, Lady Gwendolyn,” he answered, with peculiar gravity; “you have paid me the greatest compliment in your power by trusting me with your secret.”
“Oh! I wasn’t the least afraid.”
“Thank you for saying so. I shall never, of course, breathe a word of all that has happened lately.”
“I know that. But how did you guess my name, Doctor May?”
“You forget that your portrait is in almost every print-shop in London, Lady Gwendolyn.”
“True; it is very impertinent of people, but my brother said it could not be helped.”
“I shall hear of your marriage soon, I suppose?” he ventured to say, emboldened by her gracious manner; “and, believe me, Lady Gwendolyn, no one will pray for your happiness more earnestly than I.”
“I am sure of that,” she replied, holding her hand to him with a rosy blush. “But I do not know yet anything about my marriage. You see, my brother is away, and—there are certain little difficulties. But I am so happy to-night, I can only look on the bright side; and I feel as if things must come right. See, Doctor May, Colonel Dacre is already asleep. Oh!”—with a sudden, frightened glance at her companion—“is it sleep? He looks so terribly like death! Do come and see!”
She drew him forward with nervous haste, and watched him, with her heart in her eyes, as he bent over the sick man and felt his pulse.
“It is all right—but he will look like this for awhile—he is so terribly pulled down. However, he will get on now, I believe. Try and get a little sleep yourself, Lady Gwendolyn, for you need it sadly, too.”