"No, sure. Her ladyship's not there. Old Mrs. Mervyn."
"Oh!" said the doctor, tranquillized. "Old Rebecca Mervyn, is it? And what may be the matter with the poor old lady?"
"Fainting like; one fainting into another, sure; and her breath almost gone. She's very bad—as pale as a sheet."
"Is she talking at all?"
"No, not a word. Sittin' back in her chair, sure."
"Does she know you, or mind what you say to her?"
"Well, no. She's a-holdin' that old white-headed man's hand that's been so long bad there, and a-lookin' at him; but I don't think she hears nor sees nothin' myself."
"Apoplexy, or the heart, more likely," ruminated the doctor. "Will you call one of those pony things for me?"
And while the pony-carriage was coming to the door, he got a few phials together and his coat on, being in a hurry; for he was to play a rubber of billiards at the club for five shillings at seven o'clock.
In an hour's time after the interview with Arthur Verney, Lord Verney had wonderfully collected his wits. His effects in that department, it is true, were not very much, and perhaps the more easily brought together. He wrote two short letters—marvellously short for him—and sent down to the Verney Arms to request the attendance of Mr. Larkin.