He sat down, waiting, staring at Betty's umbrella. When he looked up Lady Randolph was coming down the stairs very slowly—a white-haired old woman. Something in her face choked the question which fluttered to his lips. To gain an instant's time, he opened the library door and called to his brother—
"Archie!"
Archibald appeared instantly.
"A girl has been born," said Lady Randolph, "but she is dead."
"Dead?" repeated Archibald.
"And Betty?" Mark demanded hoarsely.
"The doctors think she is safe."
The three passed into the dining-room, where some food had been laid out. Lady Randolph gave details in a worn voice. Betty's pluck had been amazing; she had displayed a fortitude lacking which she would probably have succumbed. The consulting surgeon, who entered shortly afterwards, assured the husband that, humanly speaking, the danger was over. Almost at once Archibald recovered his normal composure and dignified deportment. Mark, on the other hand, exhibited signs of collapse. He sat down shivering, as if he had been attacked by malignant malaria.
Next day he saw Betty for a couple of minutes. She smiled and thanked him, intimating that Archibald had told her that the suspense would have been intolerable had not Mark helped him to bear it. Of the loss of her baby she said nothing, but before Mark left the room she exacted a promise that he would come to see her during the period of convalescence.
About this time he began his third novel, The Songs of the Angels. Conquest asked him if he were setting to work on the theme suggested by him, and when Mark pleaded inability to guide a young and beautiful heiress through the slums of Stepney, the great man shrugged his shoulders—a gesture now associated in Mark's mind with derision and contempt. Conquest then demanded what he was doing, and hearing the synopsis of the new story shrugged his vast shoulders once more.