“Old people are apt to be sleepy after dinner,” returned the doctor.
And then there was a pause. Lady Chavasse (as Duffham’s diary expresses it) seemed to be particularly absent in manner, as if she were thinking to herself, instead of talking to him. Because he had nothing else to say, he asked after the health of Lady Rachel. That aroused her at once.
“She is not strong. She is not strong. I am sure of it.”
“She does not seem to ail much, that I can see,” returned Duffham, who often had to hear this same thing said of Lady Rachel. “She never requires medical advice.”
“I don’t care: she is not strong. There are no children,” continued Lady Chavasse, dropping her voice to a whisper; and a kind of piteous, imploring expression darkened her eyes.
“No.”
“Four years married, going on for five, and no signs of any. No signs of children, Mr. Duffham.”
“I can’t help it, my lady,” returned Duffham.
“Nobody can help it. But it is an awful misfortune. It is beginning to be a great trouble in my life. As the weeks and months and years pass on—the years, Mr. Duffham—and bring no hope, my very spirit seems to fail. ‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’”
“True.”