"Would you mind fetching my fan, Mr. Rodney? I believe I left it lying on the table in the magenta boudoir."
"Forgive me if I send Harry for it. I can scarcely walk this morning, and the fever seems increasing upon me."
"Dear! dear! Then you must not dream of going to the races."
"The fresh air will do me good."
"I fear not. I am sure you ought to be lapped at once in cotton-wool, and stay in a darkened room with the temperature kept up to at least 80."
"Possibly, but I understand that the supply of cotton-wool which Mr. Lite keeps in his patent machines has given out. Besides, I consider it my duty not to spoil your week by—by——" Here his voice shook with emotion—"giving way to illness, perhaps even to—to death."
"Quite right, Mr. Rodney," exclaimed the Duchess. "In this world duty comes first."
And she endeavoured to convey information to him by signs, without being seen by Mrs. Verulam. Mr. Rodney, never having learnt any dumb alphabet, was unable to comprehend her Grace, and was indeed considerably startled by her fleeting grimaces and tortured movements of the hands and fingers. Politeness, however, compelled him to respond, which he did by alternately nodding and shaking his head in a miserable and despairing manner, such as could scarcely reassure the Duchess or give her comfort.
While this game of cross-purposes was proceeding behind her back, Mrs. Verulam was inventing a new pretext to get rid of Mr. Rodney, in whose absence she hoped to be able to disentangle herself from the Duchess and consult with Chloe.
"Mr. Rodney," she said, with apparent bland solicitude, "I have been thinking that a cooling draught would probably do wonders for you."