The candour (and indeed thee blunt truth) of this speech came as near to confounding Mrs Matthews as anything could. The doctor, descending the stairs, thought that it said much for her control that she was able to reply, with unimpaired charity: “Ah, my dear Gertrude, I'm afraid that you strong-minded women don't always understand us highly-strung creatures.”
“I understand you perfectly, and I may say that I always have,” replied Mrs Lupton crushingly. She became aware of the doctor's approach, and wheeled round to confront him. “Dr Fielding, I believe. I have heard of you from my brother.”
Her tone implied that she had heard no good of him. He answered somewhat stiffly: “I have been attending Mr Matthews for some time, so I imagine you might.”
She looked him over. “And what,” she demanded, “was, in your opinion, the cause of my unfortunate brother's death?”
“In my opinion,” replied Fielding with a touch of sarcasm, “your brother died from syncope.”
“What on earth's that?” inquired Stella, who had come out of the dining-room as soon as she had heard his voice.
“You will oblige me,” said Mrs Lupton, ignoring her niece, “by being more precise.”
“Certainly,” said Fielding. “Your brother, as no doubt you know, suffered from a high blood-pressure, coupled with a slight valvula affection of the—”
“I am quite aware of the fact that you have been treating my brother for heart-trouble,” interrupted Mrs Lupton, “but I can only say that if he had a weak heart he was the only one of our family thus afflicted. I never believed in it. We come of extremely healthy stock. I am sure that such a thing as a weak heart was never dreamed of in our family.”
“Possibly not,” said Fielding. “But the fact remains that your brother had — as you call it — a weak heart. I repeatedly warned him against over-excitement and injudicious diet, and as he invariably disregarded my advice I have very little doubt that his death was due to syncope, produced, in all probability, by an attack of acute indigestion.”