And he said it so sternly, with such a superior gempman’s way to him, that Mrs. Garland, feeling convicted of guilt,—­and, to tell the truth, missing Kern’s earnings sorely,—­could only reply:  “Just as you say, sir, well, now, and thank you kindly, I’m sure.”

The first excitement gradually subsided, and the Dabney House settled to the long pull.  Days slipped by, all just alike.

Kern’s malady discouraged reading aloud.  It discouraged conversation.  Visitors were not allowed.  But twice, without the nurse’s knowledge,—­Miss Masters took her rest-time every afternoon from three to seven,—­rules were suspended to admit Miss Sadie Whirtle, of Baird & Himmel’s,—­an enormous, snapping, red-cheeked girl she proved to be, whose ample Semitic countenance gave a copious background for violet talcum, but who said nothing wittier in Vivian’s hearing than “Very pleased to make your acquaintance, I’m sure”—­and once to admit Miss Henrietta Cooney, of Saltman’s bookstore.  Hen came by from the store late one August afternoon, having heard something of the case which seemed to worry V.V. more than all his others put together.  She was allowed to spend twenty minutes in the sick-room, provided she did not permit Kern to talk.  Having faithfully obeyed these instructions, Henrietta returned to the office, where the doctor sat in his shirt-sleeves, humped over Miss Masters’s chart.

“She’s an odd little thing,” said Hen, “very cute and dear with her staring eyes and her yes-ma’ams.  I was telling her about the Thursday Germans, first explaining that a German had nothing to do with Germany—­or has it?  You know you told me she was wild about parties.  She was so, so interested....  V.V., she’s quite a sick girl, isn’t she?”

“Quite sick,” replied V.V.  He glanced out of his weather-worn window, and said:  “But she’s going to be better to-morrow.”

“Oh!  That’s the crisis, or whatever you call it?”

He answered by a nod, and Hen continued: 

“She never belonged in the Works, and she certainly never belonged to that fat woman with the beak I met in the hall.  She’s a changeling—­that’s it.  Speaking of the Works, V.V., I had quite a long letter from Cally Heth this week.”

“Oh!” said V.V.  “Oh, yes!—­from Miss Heth.  How is she?”

Hen, who had been strolling about the tall chamber and peeking into the instrument cabinet, noted the young man’s guarded tone; and she wondered how many times V.V. and her cousin Cally had met, and what part he had played in all that affair, and in general what these two thought of each other.

“Well, she’s certainly in much better spirits than when I had the note from her in July.  One thing, her answering my letters at all shows it.  They’re in Switzerland now, at the National House, Lucerne, and J. Forsythe Avery has, turned up, which is a pretty good sign of the times, I should say.  He’s a social barometer, you know,—­the last man in the world to turn up where it would hurt his position, whatever it is.  It wouldn’t surprise me a bit to hear some fine day that Mr. Canning had sneaked back, too, now that the worst is over, and wasn’t so very bad at that.  There’s a man I’d like to have five minutes’ talk with,” said Henrietta Cooney.  “I think I’d give him something to put in his memory-book.”