'Don't despair, Stanley, dear. The great London doctor, Sir Francis Seddley, will be with you early in the morning, and Chelford has great confidence in him. I'm sure he will relieve you.'
'This is Brandon?' murmured Lake.
'Yes, dear.'
She thought he was going to say more, but he remained silent, and she recollected that he ought not to speak, and also that she had that to say which must be said.
Sharp, dark, and strange lay that familiar face upon the white pillow. The faintest indication of something like a peevish sneer; it might be only the lines of pain and fatigue; still it had that unpleasant character remaining fixed on its features.
'Oh, Stanley! you say you think you are dying. Won't you send for William
Wylder and Chelford, and tell all you know of Mark?'
She saw he was about to say something, and she leaned her head near his lips, and she heard him whisper,—
'It won't serve Mark.'
'I'm thinking of you, Stanley—I'm thinking of you.'
To which he said either 'Yes' or 'So.' She could not distinguish.