"Shall I send for a clergyman—for your father?" asked my lord.
"Send for no one," she gasped. "What are any of them to me?"
Honoria brought the water, and as the Countess raised her head to take it she fixed her vacant eyes on my lord.
"You wait for me to ask your forgiveness," she said with sudden strength; "but honour was—never in—the bargain. I told Susannah Chressham so."
She took the glass and held it a moment, staring at her husband; then it slipped through her fingers and broke on the gilt arm of the chair; the water was spilt over her blue wrapper and the floor.
"Oh," she murmured, and sank backwards, "save me from this!"
My lord sprang up and supported her frail body. She choked, struggled, and her eyes rolled in her head, her forehead grew damp and her face distorted.
There was a tap on the door of the outer room. The doctor, my lady's black page, a maidservant and the hairdresser entered, filling the chamber with the agitation of low talk. Honoria followed the physician to my lady's side.
"What can you do for her?" demanded my lord impatiently, and the maid's sharp face was keen as she waited for the verdict.
There was hesitation, talk, delay. Half the household gathered in the outer room; the Countess lay breathing heavily in a half-swoon. It was decided to bleed her.