"
Every fond feeling within Lionel revolted at the suggestion. "We are
speaking of my mother, doctor," was his courteously-uttered rebuke.
"Well, if you would not like to do that, there's nothing for it but
patience," the doctor rejoined, as he drew open one of the iron gates.
"Lady Verner may be no better than she is now for weeks to come.
Good-day, Mr. Lionel."
Lionel paced into the house with a slow step, and went up to his
mother's chamber. She was lying on a couch by the fire, her eyes closed,
her pale features contracted as if with pain. Her maid Therese appeared
to be busy with her, and Lionel called out Decima.
"There's no improvement, I hear, Decima."
"No. But, on the other hand, there is no danger. There's nothing even
very serious, if Dr. West may be believed. Do you know, Lionel, what I
fancy he thinks?"
"What?" asked Lionel.
"That if mamma were obliged to exert and rouse herself--were like any
poor person, for instance, who cannot lie by and be nursed--she would be
well directly. And--unkind, unlike a daughter as it may seem in me to
acknowledge it--I do very much incline to the same opinion.
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