"I am not asking for myself," he insisted. "It is for him. He has the right to know."
"The right? How?" she asked, with growing agitation. "I do not understand. You spoke of some misfortune. Has papa—?"
"Quite the contrary. Yet Tom is in a very bad way, and unless you—"
"Tom ill—ill?" she cried. "And I did not realize it! That I should have been angered—should have left him—because I thought he was in a rage—and all the time it was because of his suffering, his illness! It was despicable of me—selfish! Oh, Tom, Tom!"
She covered her face with her hands, and bent over, quivering with silent grief and penitence.
"You have answered me," said Lord James, regarding her with grave sympathy. "You love him."
She looked up at him, dry-eyed, her face drawn with anxiety. "Where is he? Why aren't you with him? He has a doctor? He must have the best!"
"That rests with you, Genevieve," he replied. "There is one person alone who can save him—if she loves him enough to try."
The truth flashed upon her. She stared at him, her eyes dilating with horror. "It is that you mean! He has failed—again!"
He sought to ease her despair. "Believe me, it is not yet too late—Permit me to explain."