“Don’t let them come up,” was all he said, and shut his eyes again.

Among the callers that afternoon who, learning that Mr. Mangan was up-stairs, came personally to make inquiries, was Miss Burgoyne, who was accompanied by her brother.

“What is the matter?” she said, briefly, to Maurice.  “One never can trust what is in the newspapers.”

He told her.

“Serious?”

“That depends,” he said, in a low voice, as they stood together at the window.  “I hope not.  But I suppose the fever will have to run its course.”

“It will be some time before he can be back at the theatre?”

“It will be a very long time.  There is some slight congestion of the throat as well.  When he pulls through with the fever, he will most likely be sent abroad, for rest to his throat.”

She considered for a second or two; then she said, with a matter-of-fact air: 

“They needn’t make a fuss about that.  His throat will be all right.  It is only repeated congestions that seriously affect the membrane; and he has been exceptionally lucky—­or exceptionally strong, perhaps.  Who is his doctor?”

“Dr. Ballardyce.”

“Don’t know him.”

“Then there’s Dr. Whitsen.”

“Oh, that’s all right—­he’ll do.  It’s the voice that’s the important thing; the general system must take its chance.  Well, tell him I’m very sorry.  I suppose there’s nothing one can send him?”

“Thank you, I don’t think there is anything.  Look at the flowers and grapes and things there—­already—­and this is Sunday.”

She glanced at those gifts with open disdain.

“Very easy for rich folks to show their sympathy by sending an order to their head-gardener!”

“I will tell him that you called, and left kind messages for him.”

“Yes, tell him that.  And tell him Doyle does very well—­fairly well—­though he’s as nervous as a pantomime-girl hoisted in a transformation-scene.  If I were you,” continued this extremely practical young lady, “I wouldn’t tell any of the newspaper men that it may be a considerable time before Mr. Moore is back.  Nobody likes to lose touch of the public more than he can help, you know; and if they’re always expecting you back, that’s something.  Good-bye!”

Maurice accompanied her down-stairs and to the door; then he returned to the sitting-room and to his private meditations.  For this brief interview had been of the keenest interest to him; he had studied every expression of her face, listened to every intonation of her voice; almost forced, in spite of himself, to admire her magnificent nerve.  But now, of course, in recalling all these things, he was thinking of Francie; as a man invariably does when he places the one woman of the world on a pedestal, that all the rest of her sex may be compared with her; and even his extorted admiration of the prima-donna’s coolness and self-possession and business-like tact did not prevent his rejoicing at the thought that Francie and Miss Burgoyne were poles asunder.