Face, voice, lank arms, chicken neck: what a sepulchral sketch of him!
It was the revelry of a corpse.
Shudders of alarm for his wife seized Lord Romfrey at the sight. He thought the poor thing on the bed must be going, resolving to a cry, unwinding itself violently in its hurricane of speech, that was not speech nor exclamation, rather the tongue let loose to run to the death. It seemed to be out in mid-sea, up wave and down wave.
A nurse was at the pillow smoothing it. Miss Denham stood at the foot of the bed.
“Is that pain?” Lord Romfrey said low to Dr. Gannet.
“Unconscious,” was the reply.
Miss Denham glided about the room and disappeared.
Her business was to remove Dr. Shrapnel, that he might be out of the way when Lord Romfrey should pass him again: but Dr. Shrapnel heard one voice only, and moaned, “My Beauchamp!” She could not get him to stir.
Miss Denham saw him start slightly as the earl stepped forth and, bowing to him, said: “I thank you, sir, for permitting me to visit my nephew.”
Dr. Shrapnel made a motion of the hand, to signify freedom of access to his house. He would have spoken, the effort fetched a burst of terrible chuckles. He covered his face.