He moved towards the door, but Morrison stopped him.
“Dick,” he said; “did Renée know you were coming?”
“No,” was the curt reply.
“Is she—is she still at your uncle’s?”
“Yes, nearly always.”
“Is she—is she well?”
“No. She is ill. Heartsick and broken; and if what you say is true, she will soon have poor Gerty to keep her company.”
Dick Millet hurried away from his brother-in-law’s house, pondering upon his own love matters, and telling himself that he had more to think of than he could bear.
In happy ignorance of her ladyship’s prostrate state, John Huish, soon after his brother-in-law’s departure, hurried off to pay a hasty visit to his club, where he asked to see the secretary, and was informed that that gentleman was out. He threw himself into a cab, looking rather white and set of countenance as he had himself driven to Finsbury Square, where Daniel looked at him curiously as he ushered him into the doctor’s room.
“My dear, dear boy, I am glad!” cried the doctor, dashing down his glasses. “You did the old lady, after all, and carried the little darling off. Bless her heart! Why, the gipsy! Oh, won’t I talk to her about this. That’s the best thing I’ve known for years. What does your father say?”