Jones stood whilst the unfortunate lady was resuscitated. She returned to consciousness sobbing and flipping her hands, and she was led from the room by Venetia. Beyond the door Jones heard her voice roused in lamentation:
“My boy—my poor boy.”
Venetia had said nothing.
Jones had expected a scene, outcries, questions, but there was something in all this that was quite beyond him. They had asked no questions, seemed to take the whole thing for granted, Venetia especially.
The Duke of Melford shut the door.
“Your mother—I mean Lady Rochester’s heart is not strong,” said he, going to the bell and touching it. “I must send for the doctor to see her.”
Jones, more than ever astonished by the coolness of the other, sat down again.
“Look here,” said he, “I can’t make you all out—you’ve called me no names—you haven’t let me fully explain, the old lady is the only one that seems to have taken the news in. Can’t you understand what I have told you?”
“Perfectly,” said the old gentleman, “and it’s the most extraordinary thing I have ever heard—and the most interesting—I want to have a long talk about it.—James,” to the servant who had answered the bell, “telephone for Dr. Cavendish. Her ladyship has had another attack.”
“Dr. Cavendish has just been telephoned for, your grace, and Dr. Simms.”