“You may count on your orders being strictly carried out,” said Sir Simon.
They walked on a few yards without further speech. Sir Simon was busy with anxious and affectionate thoughts.
“I should fancy a warm climate would be the best cure for a case of this kind,” he observed, answering his own reflections, rather than speaking to his companion.
“No doubt, no doubt,” assented Dr. Blink, “if the patient was in a position to authorize her medical attendant in ordering such a measure.”
“Monsieur de la Bourbonais is in that position,” replied Sir Simon, quietly.
“Ah! I am glad to know it. I may act on the information one of these days. The young lady could not bear the fatigue of a journey to the south just now; the general health is a good deal below par; the nervous system wants toning; it is unstrung.”
Sir Simon made no comment—not at least in words—but it set his mind on painful conjecture. Perhaps the electric chain passed from him to his companion, for the latter said irrelevantly but with a significant expression, as he turned his glance full upon Sir Simon:
“We medical men are trusted with many secrets—secrets of the heart as well as of the body. We ask you frankly, as a friend of our patient, is there any moral cause at work—any disappointed affection that may have preyed on the mind and fostered the inherited germs of disease?”
“I cannot answer that question,” replied the baronet after a moment’s hesitation.
“You cannot, or you will not? Excuse my pertinacity; it is professional and necessary.”