"Well, I don't know," said Rose. "It can readily be ascertained, though. The concierge at Signor de Castella's is sure to know her address. Of course, she may not be at liberty just now, Charlotte; neither may she be inclined to take a place that involves travelling."
"Is she one of those monthly nurses?" asked Mrs. St. John. "I don't like them."
"No; I believe not. I will get you her address, Charlotte, and you can send to her or not, as you please. How this child starts!"
"He would lie more comfortably on a bed," interposed Mrs. Darling, lifting him gently from Rose's knee. "I'll take him to Prance."
It was what she had been longing to do--to get to Prance. For ten minutes' conversation with the serving-woman, Mrs. Darling would have given an earldom. The servant met her at the chamber-door, and the child was laid on his bed without awaking.
"Prance, he is surely dying," breathed Mrs. Darling, as they stood over him.
Prance glanced round, making sure there were no other listeners. "He is as surely dying, ma'am, as that his father died before him; and of the same complaint--wasting away. A month or two longer, and then--the end."
"Your mistress does not seem to see it. Does she see it, do you think?"
"I think not. I think she really believes that he will get well."
"Why does she go about from place to place in this restless manner?"