"No, no, sir; but I should dearly love to tell her. I believe it would put her into a better humour."
"Take care that you do not, Hobbs; she must not hear on any account. You will know why later on. You may be sure that Mr. Grantham and I are not idle. We have an idea in our heads, and you shall help us by and by to put it into execution; so, for the present, not one word, you hear?"
"You can rely upon me, sir."
"Yes, I am sure of that. And now, can I have a little talk with Mrs. Grantham?"
"Yes, sir, in a minute or two. She will be so glad to see you, you will do her much good! The doctor is with her for the moment."
"What does he say about her?"
"Nothing—I can't get anything out of him. He shakes his head. It's disheartening. And mistress will not listen to reason; she tears up all the prescriptions, especially lately, for the last week or so—it is very sad. I shall go and tell her you are here."
Lorimer, left alone in the studio, looked around him and took in all its details.
"Why, it's freezing here!" he said to himself. "Heavens! it's no wonder, there is positively no fire. Is she so poor as.... Oh no, it can't be so bad as that. What pathos in this room—an exact reproduction of that lovely one in the other house, where we used to have such merry times! Ah, there is the old clock in its place—not going, I see. There is Dora's portrait on Philip's easel, still lacking the finishing touches. There is Philip's jacket, hanging just where it always hung—the two easels and stools—everything in place, nothing wanting but Philip himself. What treasures of tenderness are revealed in this poor counterfeit presentment of the other studio! How happy her life must have been there, that she should want to make an exact imitation of the room, and so revive the past! There are people who break with their happy bygone times, others who cling to them determinedly. A few pounds have transformed this miserable studio into a living souvenir that will kill her. And yet, why do I say will kill her, when it is just this living souvenir that keeps her alive—that will keep her alive, perhaps? Here were two beings who loved each other dearly, and between whom a simple suspicion, a terrible misunderstanding, seems to have erected an insurmountable barrier. Philip wanted to be rich, poor beggar! He has not been long learning that there is but a step from Plutus to Pluto. Most of the old proverbs want re-editing. I know one that ought to run: 'When wealth comes in at the door, love and happiness fly out at the window.' But poor old Philip is cured, radically cured, once and for ever. He talks nonsense still sometimes, but it is the other whom I am most anxious about, and who vows that everything is over. Philip goes in for philosophy, and that is a healthy sign. He has decided that his wife is better off than he is, because she has found consolation in her painting. He would give his whole house for Dora's garret. And the fellow tells us these things in a tone of conviction, as if he were uttering the wisdom of a Solomon or a Socrates. The panegyric of poverty is all bosh; it is an affectation! When I see a book entitled How to Live comfortably on Two Hundred a Year, I take it for granted that the author is a millionaire."
Dr. Templeton came out of Dora's bedroom and surprised Lorimer in the midst of his reflections. He was looking troubled and in a bad temper.