“No,” said Myra, smiling vaguely. “No; I think not. Not unless dear mamma comes. If that happens we must wire for the duchess, because now—now Michael is away—she is the only person who can cope with mamma. But please not, otherwise; because—well, you see,—she said she could not live up to Michael; and it does not sound funny now.”
“Is there anybody you would wish sent for at once?” inquired the doctor, wondering how much larger and brighter those big grey eyes could grow; and whether any living face had ever been so absolutely colourless.
“Anybody I should wish sent for at once? I don’t know. Oh, yes—there is one person; if she could come. Jane—you know? Jane Dalmain. I always say she is like the bass of a tune; so solid, and satisfactory, and beneath one. Nothing very bad could happen, if Jane were there. But of course this has happened; hasn’t it?”
The doctor sat down.
“I wired to Gleneesh this morning,” he said. “Jane will be here early to-morrow.”
“Then lots of people knew before I did?” said Lady Ingleby.
The doctor did not answer.
She rose, and stood looking down into the fire; her tall graceful figure drawn up to its full height, her back to the doctor, whose watchful eyes never left her for an instant.
Suddenly she looked across to Lord Ingleby’s chair.
“And I believe Peter knew,” she said, in a loud, high-pitched voice. “Good heavens! Peter knew; and refused his food because Michael was dead. And I said he had dyspepsia! Michael, oh Michael! Your wife didn’t know you were dead; but your dog knew! Oh Michael, Michael! Little Peter knew!”