“Middling, sir, thank you, sir.''
“You don't let us see too much of her, Jemmy.”
“Not been well since coming to Douglas, sir.”
Cups and saucers rattled, the newspaper creaked, the Clerk cleared his throat, and there was silence.
Philip rose with a heavy heart, still in the torment of his great temptation. He remembered the vision of the night before, and, broad morning as it was, he trembled. In the Isle of Man such visions are understood to foretell death, and the man who sees them is said to “see his soul.” But Philip had no superstitions. He knew what the vision was: he knew what the vision meant.
Jem-y-Lord came in with hot water, and Philip, without looking round, said in a low tone as the door closed, “How now, my lad?”
“Fretting again, your Honour,” said the man, in a half whisper. He busied himself in the room a moment, and then added, “Somehow she gets to know things. Yesterday evening now—I was taking down some of the bottles, and I met her on the stairs. Next time I saw her she was crying.”
Philip said in a confused way, fumbling the razor. “Tell her I intend to see her after Tynwald.”
“I have, your Honour. 'It's not that, Mr. Cottier,' she answered me.”
“My wig and gown to-day, Jemmy,” said Philip, and he went out in his robes as Deemster.