"I am sorry to have missed him. I don't know what he'll think of me. Did you notice my omission?"
"What omission?"
"Never to have asked after his health. I feel ashamed of myself. I have not seen him since the day's illness he had, when the physician came down to him. I hate to be unfeeling," added Mrs. Penn, in wrath. "But what with seeing him in the oak-parlour when I expected only you were there, and what with the thought of my lace, I completely forgot it."
"He says he is better. I think he must be very much better from the alarming state they said he was in that day. But he looks ill."
"That's caused by worry; his ill looks," said Mrs. Penn. "I should wonder if he could look well. Look at his figure: it's no better than a skeleton's."
We had been walking together to the end of the library. I don't know whether I have mentioned it before, but every evening a good hour before dusk, the door of this library was locked for the night by Hill, and the key carried away in her pocket. Mrs. Penn turned to me as we stood together at the window, dropping her voice to a whisper.
"Was there not something mysterious about his illness?"
Frankly speaking, I thought there was. But in mind I had connected it in some undefined way with his sleepwalking. I could not say this.
"But that he is so remarkably unlikely a subject for it, a living atomy, as may be said, I should think it had been a fit," she continued. "Did you hear whether the London doctor also saw Lady Chandos?"
"No, I did not. There's nobody to inquire of, except Hill. And you know how much information we should be likely to get from her."