"Very well, sir. I—I wish you would tell me the truth," she went on in a somewhat agitated voice.
"The truth as to what?"
"Whether she is much worse? Dangerously so."
"No, I assure you she is not: not materially so, if you mean that. Of course—as you know yourself, Rosaline, or I should not speak of it to you—she will grow worse and worse with time."
"I do know it, sir, unfortunately."
"But I think it will be very gradual; neither sudden nor alarming. This evening's weakness seems to me to be quite exceptional. She must have been either exerting or exciting herself: I said so upstairs."
"True. It is excitement. But I did not like to say so before her. For the past few days she has been complaining that my father worries her," continued Rosaline, dropping her voice to a whisper. "She says he seems to be in her mind night and day: asleep, she dreams of him; she dwells on him. And oh, what a dreadful thing it all is!"
"Hush, Rosaline!" whispered Frank in the same cautious tones: and as Daisy's ears could not catch the conversation now, she of course thought the more. "The fancy will subside. At times, you know, she has had it before."
"Blase Pellet excites her. I know he does. Only the other day he said something or other."
"I wish Blase Pellet was transported!" cried Frank quickly. "But it—it cannot be helped, Rosaline. Give your mother half a wine-glass of this mixture at once."