"The Frenchman who came in the morning seems clever; and, at my request, he brought Dr. Danvers, an English physician. I am told he is the best English doctor in Paris. They are both of the same opinion as to the nature of the attack; but Dr. Danvers is inclined to look upon it more seriously than the French doctor. He declared that Julian's brain must have been frightfully overworked within the last few years; and when I told him that my husband's life had, to my knowledge, been one of rest and tranquil monotony, I could see by his face that he did not believe me."
"Mr. Wyllard is better, I hope, since the morning."
"Yes, he is much better. There is still a feeling of heaviness and dull pain; but he is so patient, he will hardly confess he is in pain, though I can see from his face that he suffers."
The tears rushed to her eyes, and she walked hastily to the window, where she stood for a few minutes holding her handkerchief before her face, with her back to Heathcote, who waited silently, knowing the uselessness of all consolatory speeches at such a time.
She conquered herself, and came back to her seat presently.
"Struck down in the prime of his manhood, in all the force of his intellect," she said. "It is a deathblow."
"Your English doctor may exaggerate the danger."
"God grant that it is so. I have telegraphed to Sir William Spencer, entreating him to come to Paris by to-night's mail. The question of cost is nothing; but I fear he may not be able to leave his practice so long—or he may be away from London."
"When did you telegraph?"
"An hour ago. I am expecting the answer at any moment. I hope he will come."