“Good-evening,” said Rachel sullenly, as if pouting.  She avoided looking at Louis, and sat down on the Chesterfield.

Louis broke forth in a cascade of words—­

“I say, I’m most awfully sorry.  I hadn’t the faintest notion this afternoon she was any worse—­not the faintest.  Otherwise I shouldn’t have dreamt—­I met the doctor just now in Moorthorne Road, and he told me.”

“What did he tell you?” asked Rachel, still with averted head, picking at her frock.

“Well, he gave me to understand there’s very little hope, and nothing to be done.  If I’d had the faintest notion—­”

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Rachel.  “Your coming made no difference.  The doctor said so.”  And she asked herself why she should go out of her way to reassure Louis.  It would serve him right to think that his brusque visit, with Mr. Batchgrew’s, was the origin of the relapse.

“Is there any change?” Louis asked.

Rachel shook her head “No,” she said.  “We just have to sit and watch.”

“Doctor’s coming in again to-night, isn’t he?”

Rachel nodded.

“It seems it’s an embolus.”

Rachel nodded once more.  She had still no conception of what an embolus was; but she naturally assumed that Louis could define an embolus with exactitude.

“I say,” said Louis, and his voice was suddenly charged with magical qualities of persuasion, entreaty, and sincerity—­“I say, you might look at me.”

She flushed, but she looked up at him.  She might have sat straight and remarked:  “Mr. Fores, what do you mean by talking to me like that?” But she raised her eyes and her crimson cheeks for one timid instant, and dropped them.  His voice had overcome her.  With a single phrase, with a mere inflection, he had changed the key of the interview.  And the glance at him had exposed her to the appeal of his face, more powerful than ten thousand logical arguments and warnings.  His face proved that he was a sympathetic, wistful, worried fellow-creature—­and miraculously, uniquely handsome.  His face in the twilight was the most romantic face that Rachel had ever seen.  His gestures had a celestial charm.

He said—­

“I know I ought to apologize for the way I came in this afternoon.  I do.  But if you knew what cause I had ...!  Would you believe that old Batch had come to my place, and practically accused me of stealing the old lady’s money—­stealing it!”

“Never!” Rachel murmured.

“Yes, he did.  The fact is, he knew jolly well he’d no business to have left it in the house that night, so he wanted to get out of it by making me suffer.  You know he’s always been down on me.  Well, I came straight up here and I told auntie.  Of course I couldn’t make a fuss, with her ill in bed.  So I simply told her I hadn’t got her money and I hadn’t stolen it, and I left it at that.  I thought the less said the better.  But I had to say that much.  I wonder what Julian would have said if he’d been accused.  I just wonder!” He repeated the word, queerly evocative:  “Julian!”