The physician came in a carriage and pair, with the necessary bald head, and the indispensable white cravat.  He felt her ladyship’s pulse, and put a few gentle questions.  He turned his back solemnly, as only a great doctor can, on his own positive internal conviction that his patient had nothing whatever the matter with her.  He said, with every appearance of believing in himself, “Nerves, Lady Lundie.  Repose in bed is essentially necessary.  I will write a prescription.”  He prescribed, with perfect gravity:  Aromatic Spirits of Ammonia—­16 drops.  Spirits of Red Lavender—­10 drops.  Syrup of Orange Peel—­2 drams.  Camphor Julep—­1 ounce.  When he had written, Misce fiat Hanstus (instead of Mix a Draught)—­when he had added, Ter die Sumendus (instead of To be taken Three times a day)—­and when he had certified to his own Latin, by putting his initials at the end, he had only to make his bow; to slip two guineas into his pocket; and to go his way, with an approving professional conscience, in the character of a physician who had done his duty.

Lady Lundie was in bed.  The visible part of her ladyship was perfectly attired, with a view to the occasion.  A fillet of superb white lace encircled her head.  She wore an adorable invalid jacket of white cambric, trimmed with lace and pink ribbons.  The rest was—­bed-clothes.  On a table at her side stood the Red Lavender Draught—­in color soothing to the eye; in flavor not unpleasant to the taste.  A book of devotional character was near it.  The domestic ledgers, and the kitchen report for the day, were ranged modestly behind the devout book. (Not even her ladyship’s nerves, observe, were permitted to interfere with her ladyship’s duty.) A fan, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief lay within reach on the counterpane.  The spacious room was partially darkened.  One of the lower windows was open, affording her ladyship the necessary cubic supply of air.  The late Sir Thomas looked at his widow, in effigy, from the wall opposite the end of the bed.  Not a chair was out of its place; not a vestige of wearing apparel dared to show itself outside the sacred limits of the wardrobe and the drawers.  The sparkling treasures of the toilet-table glittered in the dim distance, The jugs and basins were of a rare and creamy white; spotless and beautiful to see.  Look where you might, you saw a perfect room.  Then look at the bed—­and you saw a perfect woman, and completed the picture.

It was the day after Anne’s appearance at Swanhaven—­toward the end of the afternoon.

Lady Lundie’s own maid opened the door noiselessly, and stole on tip-toe to the bedside.  Her ladyship’s eyes were closed.  Her ladyship suddenly opened them.

“Not asleep, Hopkins.  Suffering.  What is it?”

Hopkins laid two cards on the counterpane.  “Mrs. Delamayn, my lady—­and Mrs. Glenarm.”

“They were told I was ill, of course?”

“Yes, my lady.  Mrs. Glenarm sent for me.  She went into the library, and wrote this note.”  Hopkins produced the note, neatly folded in three-cornered form.