as afraid at first it would be too much for him, sitting up three
nights consecutively, and even now he has not at all recovered his
looks.'

'Is he looking ill?' said Theodora.

'He has gone through a great deal, and when she tries to make him go
out, he only goes down to smoke. You would do a great deal of good if
you were there.'

Theodora would not reply. For Arthur to ask her to come and be godmother
was the very thing she wished; but she would not offer at John's
bidding, especially when Arthur was more than ever devoted to his wife;
so she made no sign; and John repented of having said so much, thinking
that, in such a humour, the farther she was from them the better.

Yet what he had said might have worked, had not a history of the
circumstances of Violet's illness come round to her by way of Mrs.
Nesbit. John had told his father; Lord Martindale told his wife; Lady
Martindale told her aunt, under whose colouring the story reached
Theodora, that Arthur's wife had been helpless and inefficient, had done
nothing but cry over her household affairs, could not bear to be left
alone, and that the child's premature birth had been occasioned by a
fit of hysterics because Arthur had gone out fishing. No wonder Theodora
pitied the one brother, and thought the other infatuated. To write
to Arthur was out of the question; and she could only look forward to
consoling him when the time for London should come. Nor was she much
inclined to compassionate John, when, as he said, the east wind--as
his aunt said, the London fog--as she thought, the Rickworth
meadows--brought on such an accession of cough that he was obliged to
confine himself to his two rooms, where he felt unusually solitary.

She went in one day to carry him the newspaper. 'I am writing to
Arthur,' he said, 'to tell him that I shall not be able to be in London
next Sunday; do you like to put in a note?'

'No, I thank you.'

'You have no message?'

'None.'

He paused and looked at her. 'I wish you would write,' he said. 'Arthur
has been watching eagerly for your congratulation.'

'He does not give much encouragement,' said Theodora, moving to the
door.

'I wish he was a letter writer! After being so long with them, I don't
like hearing nothing more; but his time has been so much engrossed that
he could hardly have written at first. I believe the first letter he
looked for was from you.'

'I don't know what to say. Other people have said all the com