Hetzel staid away for some minutes. Coming back, “It was the messenger,” he said; “but he had no answer. The prison people told him that there was none.”
It was now about seven o’clock. Presently Bridget appeared upon the threshold, and asked to speak with her mistress. Mrs. Hart stepped into the hall, where for a time she and the servant conversed in low tones. Re-entering the parlor, she said, “Dinner.—She came to tell me that dinner is ready. I had forgotten it. Will you come down?”
Hetzel rose. Arthur remained seated.
“Come, Arthur. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Hart said? Dinner is ready,” Hetzel began.
“Oh, you don’t suppose I want any dinner, do you? You two go down, if you choose. I’ll wait for you here.”
“Now, be sensible, will you? Come down-stairs with us. Whether you want to, or not, you must eat something. You’ll get sick, fasting like this. We’ve got enough on our hands, as it is, without having a sick man to look after. Come along.”
Hetzel took Arthur by the arm, and led him out.
But their attempt at dinner was pretty doleful. Despite their long abstinence from food, none of them was hungry. Hetzel alone contrived to finish his soup. Mrs. Hart and Arthur could swallow no more than a few mouthfuls of bread and wine apiece.
Afterward they went back to the parlor. As before, Arthur sat still and nursed his thoughts. Hetzel picked up an illustrated book from the table, and began to turn the pages. Mrs. Hart said, “If you will excuse me, I think I’ll lie down for a little. I have a splitting headache.” She lay down on the sofa. Hetzel got a shawl, and covered her with it.
The clock was striking ten, when for a third time the bell rang. For a third time Hetzel started to answer it. Arthur accompanied him.