She was putting her spectacles under her veil, her face whiter than ever. “Pray do not interrupt your conversation to pay attention to me! I thank you; I thank you both. I am subject to—slight spasms, and they do make me look ill for the moment. It has passed now.”
The doctor turned from her; Mr. Carlyle resumed his place by the window. “What should be the treatment?” asked the latter.
“Almost anything you please—that the boy himself likes. Let him play or rest, ride or walk, eat and drink, or let it alone; it cannot make much difference.”
“Doctor! You yield it, as a last hope, very lightly.”
Dr. Martin shook his head. “I speak as I know. You insisted on having my true opinion.”
“A warmer climate?” suggested Mr. Carlyle eagerly, the idea crossing his mind.
“It might prolong the end for a little while—a few weeks, perhaps—avert it it could not. And who could take him? You could not go; and he has no mother. No! I should not advise it.”
“I wish you would see Wainwright—with reference to William.”
“I have seen him. I met him this afternoon, by chance, and told him my opinion. How is Mrs. Carlyle?”
“Pretty well. She is not in robust health, you are aware, just now.”