Since the accident, however, he had been kind—­very kind.

The door opened, and Sir James was announced.  She greeted him with a tremulous and fluttering warmth that for a moment embarrassed her visitor, accustomed to the old excess of manner and dignity, wherewith she kept her little world in awe.  He saw, too, that the havoc wrought by age and grief had gone forward rapidly since he had seen her last.

“I am afraid there is no better news of Oliver?” he said, gravely, as he sat down beside her.

She shook her head.

“We are in despair, Nothing touches the pain but morphia.  And he has lost heart himself so much during the last fortnight.”

“You have had any fresh opinion?”

“Yes.  The last man told me he still believed the injury was curable, but that Oliver must do a great deal for himself.  And that he seems incapable of doing.  It is, of course, the shock to the nerves, and—­the general—­disappointment—­”

Her voice shook.  She stared into the fire.

“You mean—­about politics?” said Sir James, after a pause.

“Yes.  Whenever I speak cheerfully to him, he asks me what there is to live for.  He has been driven out of politics—­by a conspiracy—­”

Sir James moved impatiently.

“With health he would soon recover everything,” he said, rather shortly.

She made no reply, and her shrunken faded look—­as of one with no energy for hope—­again roused his pity.

“Tell me,” he said, bending toward her—­“I don’t ask from idle curiosity—­but—­has there been any truth in the rumor of Oliver’s engagement to Miss Drake?”

Lady Lucy raised her head sharply.  The light came back to her eyes.

“She was engaged to him, and three weeks after his accident she threw him over.”

Sir James made a sound of amazement.  Lady Lucy went on: 

“She left him and me, barely a fortnight afterward, to go to a big country-house party in the north.  That will show you—­what she’s made of.  Then she wrote—­a hypocritical letter—­putting it on him. He must not be agitated, nor feel her any burden upon him; so, for his sake, she broke it off.  Of course, they were to be cousins and friends again just as before.  She had arranged it all to her own satisfaction—­and was meanwhile flirting desperately, as we heard from various people in the north, with Lord Philip Darcy.  Oliver showed me her letter, and at last told me the whole story.  I persuaded him not to answer it.  A fortnight ago, she wrote again, proposing to come back here—­to ‘look after’ us—­poor things!  This time, I replied.  She would like Tallyn, no doubt, as a place of retreat, should other plans fail; but it will not be open to her!”

It was not energy now—­vindictive energy—­that was lacking to the personality before him!

“An odious young woman” exclaimed Sir James, lifting hands and eyebrows.  “I am afraid I always thought so, saving your presence, Lady Lucy.  However, she will want a retreat; for her plans—­in the quarter you name—­have not a chance of success.”