"My husband's name is Louis Davenport. He has been ill a long time--years. He has been suffering from spasmodic asthma. I can gather from your manner that there is no hope."
Her voice was firm and clear. No feature moved but the beautiful, flexible mouth, of which the lips were as full of colour as ever.
"May I beg of you to be seated?" Dr. Santley left the position he had occupied and handed her a chair. She sank on it without speaking. She rested one of her arms on the table. He went on: "Mrs. Davenport, I am afraid the worst must be faced."
"The worst!" she cried, rising and looking wildly at him, her voice now coming in a terrified whisper from between her lips, which at the moment lost their colour. "The worst! What do you mean by the worst? What do you know of the worst?"
Her face showed intense eagerness, mingled with intense fear.
"I am very sorry to be obliged to give you bad news."
"And it is?" with still greater eagerness and fear.
"That Mr. Davenport will not recover."
"That he is dead?" leaning forward on the back of her chair towards him.
"Unhappily, yes."