“Well, my dear Henry,” she began, “I am happy to tell you that for once your fears have been exaggerated. The Laurence girls were here to-day, and I told them—quite naturally, just in the course of conversation, you know—the piece of news I had heard. And I assure you, Eugenia took it beautifully; was not the least surprised or upset; begged me to send her congratulations, and so on. She cannot have been impressed by Beauchamp Chancellor as you thought, for she is a girl that shows all her feelings. It is quite a relief to me. I feel quite happy about her now.”
“Do you?” said Henry, with cruel satire. “I’m glad to hear it. Only I suspect your feelings are not at this moment shared by her family. Mr Le Neve was dining at Hill’s to-night, and a couple of hours ago he was sent for in a hurry to the Laurences. He said he would look in again, and so he did, and told us the patient was Miss Laurence—Eugenia, I mean. And I can tell you he is far from easy about her. My own idea is she’s in for brain fever. Be sure you send round first thing in the morning to inquire.”
Poor Mrs Dalrymple was crushed at once.
“Don’t you think Mr Le Neve is rather an alarmist?” she ventured, timidly.
But Henry was very unfeeling. “I can’t say I do,” he replied, leaving his wife to her own reflections, which considerably interfered with her night’s rest.
Volume Two—Chapter Four.
Reaction.
... The sorrows of all humanity
Through my heart make a thoroughfare.
G. Macdonald.