It would be for Lady Maulevrier, helpless, a
prisoner to her sofa, at death's door, to face that danger. The very
thought of it might kill her. And yet it was imperative that the truth
should be told her without delay.
The two young men went to her ladyship's sitting room. She was alone, a
volume of her favourite Schopenhauer open before her, under the light of
the shaded reading-lamp. Sorry comfort in the hour of trouble!
Maulevrier went over to her and kissed her; and then dropped silently
into a chair near at hand, his face in shadow. Hartfield seated himself
nearer the sofa, and nearer the lamp.
'Dear Lady Maulevrier, I have come to tell you some very bad news--'
'Lesbia?' exclaimed her ladyship, with a frightened look.
'No, there is nothing wrong with Lesbia. It is about your old servant
Steadman.'
'Dead?' faltered Lady Maulevrier, ashy pale, as she looked at him in the
lamplight.
He bent his head affirmatively.
'Yes. He was seized with apoplexy--fell from his chair to the hearth,
and never spoke or stirred again.
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