"She's thin, poor dear," said Mrs. Bullwell.
"Do you think," I whispered, "do you think she'll come round?"
"Why, of course she will, sir. I've never heard of no woman dying in a faint. Yes—I 'ave, though. A cousin of mine when she was a young girl, just like this young lady, she died in a faint—never came to again. We laid her on a couch just like this. We patted her hands, we gave her—well, there was no brandy in the house—but we gave her a drop of gin. But she never took no notice of nothing. She went off as though she'd gone to sleep and that was the end of her. The doctor made sure she was quite dead before we buried her."
I felt I could listen to no more of that. Another word or two from Mrs. Bullwell of that nature and she would have guessed my secret. I went out to the hall door and waited on the steps. When Perowne arrived I brought him straight into the room. He asked for no explanation. How I blessed him for that!
"Shall I go out of the room?" I asked.
"Stay where you are," said he.
So I stood staring out of the window, and not one vehicle that passed, not one human being who went by did I see. All my senses were strained to the hearing of the first sound of Clarissa's voice.
"He'll bring her round," I continually said to myself. "He'll bring her round, if any one can."
But the silence was unbroken. It came at last to be more than I could bear. I faced round into the room.
"Can't you do anything?" said I. "Can't you bring her round again?"