‘Yes; I feel easier now.’
He spoke so slowly, so languidly, and so faintly, that the voice was scarce audible.
‘You sent for me; at least, Dr. Reichhardt said you wished to see me.’
‘Yes; I have something to say to you. Sit down.’
Jerome seated himself on a chair which stood beside the bed, and waited. Since opening his eyes, and seeing his son stooping over him, Mr. Wellfield had not closed them again. They looked restlessly round—at the ceiling, the wall, the window—anywhere, except into his son’s face. It was some little time before he spoke again; what he had to say seemed to require a considerable effort of some kind. At last, in a voice which had suddenly gained strength, he said:
‘You don’t know what caused me to be so suddenly taken ill to-day.’
‘I had not thought of the cause. I was disturbed at the fact.’
‘I had a severe shock, after you went out this morning.’
‘Indeed!’ said Jerome, with some animation; ‘I hope no carelessness——’
‘None at all, except the carelessness of circumstances, which is apt to be astonishing sometimes, especially to those who suffer from it,’ he retorted, a sarcastic flavour in his voice. ‘I ought to have spoken to you long ago—long ago.’