e doctor here immediately. Let me bring him, sir."

A gleam as of a lantern through his oppressive mental fog calmed the
awful irritability of his nerves somewhat.

"You've got him outside?"

"No, sir."

The merchant's eagerness faded out. He put his hand to her shoulder, and
went along to a chair, sinking into it, and closing his eyelids. So they
remained, Emilia at his right hand. She watched him breathing with a weak
open mouth, and thought more of the doctor now than of Wilfrid.

CHAPTER XXV

Braintop's knock at the door had been unheeded for some minutes. At last
Emilia let him in. The brandy and biscuits were placed on a table, and
Emilia resumed her watch by Mr. Pole. She saw that his lips moved, after
a space, and putting her ear down, understood that he desired not to see
any one who might come for an interview with him: nor were the clerks to
be admitted. The latter direction was given in precise terms. Emilia
repeated the orders outside. On her return, the merchant's eyes were
open.

"My forehead feels damp," he said; "and I'm not hot at all. Just take
hold of my hands. They're like wet crumpets. I wonder what makes me so
stiff. A man mustn't sit at business too long at a time. Sure to make
people think he's ill. What was that about a doctor? I seem to remember.
I won't see one."

Emilia had filled a glass with brandy. She brought it nearer to his hand,
while he was speaking. At the touch of the glass, his fingers went round
it slowly, and he raised it to his mouth. The liquor revived him. He
breathed "ah!" several times, and grimaced, blinking, as if seeking to
arouse a proper brightness in his eyes. Then, he held out his empty glass
to her, and she filled it, and he sipped deliberately, saying: "I'm warm
inside. I keep on perspiring so cold. Can't make it out. Look at my
finger-ends, my dear. They're whitish, aren't they?"

Emilia took the hand he presented, and chafed it, and put it against her
bosom, half under one arm. The action appeared to give some warmth to his
heart, for he petted her, in return.

A third time he held out the glass, and remarked that this stuff was
better than medicine.

"You women!" he sneered, as at a reminiscence of their faith in drugs.

"My legs are weak, though!" He had risen and tested the fact. "Very
shaky. I wonder what makes 'em--I don't take much exercise." Pondering on
this problem, he pursued: "It's the stomach. I'm as empty as an
egg-shell. Odd, I'