“To-morrow, or whenever you like, Sir Marcus; but pray forgive me if I run away now to ask my brother if our visitors have come.”
“They 'll be here to-morrow evening, Ju,” said George, as she rushed to meet him. “Is that Guff's phaeton I see at the gate?”
“Yes; the tiresome creature has been here the last hour. I 'll not go back to him. You must take your share now.”
By the time L'Estrange entered the room, Sir Marcus had replaced his respirator, and enveloped himself in two of his overcoats and a fur boa. “Oh, here you are,” said he, speaking with much difficulty. “I can't talk now; it brings on the cough. Come over in the evening, and I 'll tell you about it.”
“About what, pray?” asked the other, curtly.
“There 's no use being angry. It only hurries the respiration, and chokes the pulmonary vessels. They won't give a sixpence—not one of them. They say that you don't preach St. Paul—that you think too much about works. I don't know what they don't say; but come over about seven.”
“Do you mean that the subscribers have withdrawn from the church?”
Sir Marcus had not breath for further discussion, but made a gesture of assent with his head.
L'Estrange sank down on a chair overpowered, nor did he speak to, or notice, the other as he withdrew.
“Are you ill, dearest George?” said Julia, as she saw her brother pale and motionless on the chair. “Are you ill?”