“At last some one has been able to define me. I am ‘impatient.’ But you take refuge in that profound silence which is the philosophy of the strong; you don't struggle against the general feeling; you content yourself by going your own gait quietly. You have pride enough to be—nothing, and ambition enough to do—everything. Hark! what is that? They are calling out news in the street.”
“The current lie,” said Orange. “We don't want to hear it.”
Sara walked to the window and threw it open.
“I caught a name,” she exclaimed. “It is something about Reckage ... Listen ... Reckage!”
Above the din of the traffic, a hoarse duet rose from the street—voice answering voice with a discordant reiteration of one phrase—“Serious accident to Lord Reckage! Serious accident to Lord Reckage!”
“My God, what are they saying? What are they saying? It is my imagination. It can't be true. I am fancying things. What are they saying?”
Orange had already left the room and was in the road. When he returned, he gave her the newspaper and did not attempt to speak. But he closed the window in order to shut out, if possible, the hideous cry.
“Where is it? I can't see! In which column?” said Sara.
He pointed to a corner on the third page, where she read in black, rough type:—
“Lord Reckage was thrown from his horse at Hyde Park Corner this afternoon. He was removed to Almouth House. His injuries are said to be of a very dangerous nature.”