"One of those letters was from Mr. Carr; and I presume you can make no objection to my hearing from him. The other—Maude, I have waited until now to disclose its contents to you; I would not mar your happiness yesterday."
She looked up at him. Something in his voice, a sad pitying tenderness, caused her heart to beat a shade quicker. "It was a foreign letter, Maude. I think you observed that. It bore the French postmark."
A light broke upon her. "Oh, Percival, it is about Robert! Surely he is not worse!"
He drew her closer to him: not speaking.
"He is not dead?" she said, with a rush of tears. "Ah, you need not tell me; I see it. Robert! Robert!"
"It has been a happy death, Maude, and he is better off. He was quite ready to go. I wish we were as ready!"
Lord Hartledon took out the letter and read the chief portion of it to her. One little part he dexterously omitted, describing the cause of death—disease of the heart.
"But I thought he was getting so much better. What has killed him in this sudden manner?"
"Well, there was no great hope from the first. I confess I have entertained none. Mr. Hillary, you know, warned us it might end either way."
"Was it decline?" she asked, her tears falling.