"We shall learn it soon enough," carelessly observed Mr. Chandos. "A man may not make a less desirable tenant because he happens not to have a handsome face. Tastes differ, you know, Miss Hereford. Were we all bought and sold by our looks, what a squabbling of opinions there'd be!"
The meal was nearly over, when a startling interruption occurred. Mrs. Chandos burst wildly into the room, agitated, trembling; her hands raised, her face ashy white. Mr. Chandos threw down his knife and fork, and rose in consternation.
"Oh, Lady Chandos! Oh, Harry!" came the words, almost in a shriek. "Do come! She has fallen on the carpet in a fit—or something. I think she may be dying!"
"Excited again, Ethel!" observed Lady Chandos, the perfect calmness of her tone presenting a curious contrast. "When will you learn to take trifles quietly and rationally? Who has fallen? The white kitten?"
Mrs. Chandos did not like the reproach. "There's nothing to blame me for this time," she said, with a sob of vehemence. "It is Mrs. Freeman. She is lying there on the floor, looking frightful. I am not sure but she's dead."
"Take care of her, Harry," said Lady Chandos. "I will see what it is."
"Shall I go?" he asked. "It may be better. You can stay with Ethel."
Lady Chandos only answered by waving him back, as she quitted the room. Mrs. Chandos trembled excessively, and Mr. Chandos placed her in an easy-chair.
"Calm yourself, Ethel—as my mother says."
"What nonsense you talk, Harry! As if everybody could have their feelings under control as she has—as you have! Time was when I was calm and heedless enough, Heaven knows, but since—since—you know?"