“Just the same.”
“Not conscious?”
“No.”
“Never has been?”
“Not for a moment.”
It is the morning that follows that “serious and it is to be feared fatal accident on the line between Rivers Sutton and Shipston,” to whose occurrence at 7.15 p.m. on the previous evening the Shipston Weekly Advertiser will give a paragraph in its next issue, and the London papers record with greater conciseness, and in smaller type.
The interlocutors are exchanging whispered questions and answers in the verandah, Mrs. Prince having risen at an unprecedented hour, and laden her carriage with a pharmacy of drugs to show her neighbourly sympathy; and Mrs. Darcy having spent the night at Campion Place, a vigil to which her appearance lends no improbability.
“I do not yet understand quite how it happened.”
“Will you mind coming a little farther from the house?”
“But I thought you said he was quite unconscious?”