to hear from
him, of him:--the decision, whatever it's to be!'

'I can't aid you there,' said Lady Grace. 'He's one of the unreadables.
He names Tuesday next week.'

'By all means.'

'She?'

'Fredi?--poor Fredi!--ah, my poor girl, yes!--No, she knows nothing. Here
is the truth of it.--she, the legitimate, lives: they say she lives.
Well, then, she lives against all rules physical or medical, lives by
sheer force of will--it's a miracle of the power of a human creature to
. . . . I have it from doctors, friends, attendants, they can't guess what
she holds on, to keep her breath. All the happiness in life!--if only it
could benefit her. But it 's the cause of death to us. Do you see, dear
friend;--you are a friend, proved friend,' he took her hand, and held and
pressed it, in great need of a sanguine response to emphasis; and having
this warm feminine hand, his ideas ran off with it. 'The friend I need!
You have courage. My Nataly, poor dear--she can endure, in her quiet way.
A woman of courage would take her place beside me and compel the world to
do her homage, help;--a bright ready smile does it! She would never be
beaten. Of course, we could have lived under a bushel--stifled next to
death! But I am for light, air-battle, if you like. I want a comrade, not
a--not that I complain. I respect, pity, love--I do love her, honour:
only, we want something else--courage--to face the enemy. Quite right,
that she should speak to Dudley Sowerby. He has to know, must know; all
who deal closely with us must know. But see a moment: I am waiting to see
the impediment dispersed, which puts her at an inequality with the world:
and then I speak to all whom it concerns--not before: for her sake. How
is it now? Dudley will ask . . . you understand. And when I am forced to
confess, that the mother, the mother of the girl he seeks in marriage, is
not yet in that state herself, probably at that very instant the obstacle
has crumbled to dust! I say, probably: I have information--doctors,
friends, attendants--they all declare it cannot last outside a week. But
you are here--true, I could swear! a touch of a hand tells me. A woman's
hand? Well, yes: I read by the touch of a woman's hand:--betrays more
than her looks or her lips!' He sank his voice. 'I don't talk of
condoling: if you are in grief, you know I share it.' He kissed her hand,
and laid it on her lap; eyed it, and met her eyes; took a header into her
eyes, and lost himself. A nip