Lady Clifford lit a fresh cigarette and fitted it into her long holder,
then she spoke.

"I think, Dido, Charles is certainly less feeble than we feared. These
past few days I have felt quite sure he is going to get well. Roger
thinks so, too."

The final sentence was not lost on Esther, who chid herself indignantly
for being annoyed. Wasn't it better that there should be peace in the
house instead of an armed neutrality?

At that moment one of those trifling things occurred which lately
seemed constantly coming across her path. A movement of Lady
Clifford's arm swept her cigarette-case to the floor and it fell with a
clatter close to the card-table. Stooping down, Esther picked it up
and crossed to restore it to its owner.

"_Merci, mille fois,_" Therese murmured mechanically, putting out her
hand. She did not look up or she would have seen the sudden dilation
of Esther's eyes as she caught sight of the fashion drawings on the two
pages open in front of her.

The sketches showed in every detail, and with the greatest possible
degree of _chic_ and _coquetterie_, the latest mode in widow's garb.

What a curious paradox! It was absurdly unimportant, yet how odd it
seemed that Lady Clifford, while speaking with calm confidence of her
husband's recovery, should at the same time be regarding with interest
the newest ideas in mourning!

"Your play, my dear. Why, what is the matter? Were you bothered about
something?"

"No, not in the least, Miss Clifford. I'm rather tired to-night,
that's all. Perhaps it's the weather."

She was not sorry to say good-night and withdraw to the solitude of her
bedroom. The sense of vague trouble which had so often haunted her
since she had entered this house was strong upon her now. It had been
an uncomfortable evening; Roger's enigmatic behaviour still disturbed
her peace of mind. Now, for an insufficient reason, she felt uneasy
about her patient. She could not go to bed without having a look at
him, merely to set her fears at rest.

The night-nurse was sitting in an easy chair behind the screen, reading
a Tauchnitz edition of a novel by Florence Barclay. She came forward
with her elaborately cautious step, smiling with all her false teeth to
the fore.

"How is he to-night? Going on as usual?" Esther whispered.

"Oh, quate, quate! Look at him--as peaceful as a baby, poor old thing.
I hardly think we need to worry. I hear _she's_ down to-night. How's
she lo