“Monsieur Dupuis; a man of long experience, kind and clever. I was talking to him the other day, and he as good as said his skill and care seemed to avail nothing: were wasted on her.”
“Is it consumption?”
“I think not. She caught a dreadful cold about a month ago through being out in a night fog, thinly clad; and there’s no doubt it left mischief behind; but it seems to me that she is wasting away with inward fever.”
“I should get George to run over to see her, if I were you, Mary,” remarked Stella. “French doctors are very clever, I believe, especially as surgeons; but for an uncertain case like this they don’t come up to the English. And George knows her constitution.”
They went down to the salon, Mary Carimon laughing a little at the remark. Stella Featherston had not been long enough in France to part with her native prejudices. The family with whom she lived in Paris had journeyed to Sainteville for a month for what they called “les eaux,” and Stella accompanied them. They were in lodgings on the port.
Mrs. Fennel seemed more like her old self that evening than she had been for some time past. The unexpected presence of her companion of early days changed the tone of her mind and raised her spirits. Stella exerted all her mirth, talked of their doings in the past, told of Buttermead’s doings in the present. Nancy was quite gay.
“Do you ever sing now, Stella?” she suddenly asked.
“Why, no,” laughed Stella, “unless I am quite alone. Who would care to hear old ditties sung without music?”
“I should. Oh, Stella, sing me a few!” urged the invalid, her tone quite imploring. “It would bring the dear old days back to me.”
Stella Featherston had a most melodious voice, but she did not play. It was not unusual in those days for girls to sing without any accompaniment, as Stella had for the most part done.