She longed to fling herself down at his knees, but he was so still, that to move seemed impossible; she remained silent, with folded hands.
Mr. Treffry spoke:
“You'll let me know—before—you—go. Goodnight!”
Christian stole out into the passage. A bead curtain rustled in the draught; voices reached her.
“My honour is involved, or I would give the case up.”
“He is very trying, poor Nicholas! He always had that peculiar quality of opposition; it has brought him to grief a hundred times. There is opposition in our blood; my family all have it. My eldest brother died of it; with my poor sister, who was as gentle as a lamb, it took the form of doing the right thing in the wrong place. It is a matter of temperament, you see. You must have patience.”
“Patience,” repeated Dawney's voice, “is one thing; patience where there is responsibility is another. I've not had a wink of sleep these last two nights.”
There was a faint, shrill swish of silk.
“Is he so very ill?”
Christian held her breath. The answer came at last.