Judith looked at her uncle again. His dull, apathetic expression had not altered a particle, so far as she could discover. The idea of disturbing this half-dead man seemed absurd. Yet the old woman who attended him constantly might be right, after all, and certainly there was no prospect of being able to arouse him sufficiently to recognize his niece.
“Follow me, Elaine,” she commanded, with a trace of haughtiness due to the servant’s defiant attitude.
At the foot of the stairs stood an old garden bench. Judith seated herself and waited until the old woman joined her. Then she said:
“How long do you expect my uncle to live?”
Elaine started to sit down beside her.
“You may stand, if you please,” said Judith; and old Miss Halliday stood, although her eyes had a resentful look in them at thus being assigned to her true station. In the old days she had been considered a privileged servant, it is true; yet, even then, she would not have dared to seat herself in the presence of an Eliot.
“I don’t know,” she returned. “He has been like this for three years. He may live a dozen more—if I can manage to keep his body and soul together.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“Why, there isn’t much to eat here, if you want the truth; and so it’s lucky Mr. Eliot doesn’t require much food. The wine is the hardest thing to get. It’s mighty expensive; but he must have it, Dr. Jenkins says.”
“Is the doctor attending him?”