“I should think it would be easy for you to make friends anywhere,” said Francie, in her gentle fashion.

They did not linger long over that meal; it was hardly a time for feasting; indeed, Maurice had gone down before the others, to hear the nurse’s report.  She had nothing to say; the sick-room had been so still, she had not even ventured in, hoping the patient was asleep.

That afternoon there were many callers; and Mangan, who went down to such of them as wanted to have special intelligence, was pleased in a way.  “Well,” he would say to himself, as he went up and down the stairs, “the public have a little gratitude, after all, and even mere acquaintances do think of you occasionally.  It is something.  But if you should go under, if you should drop out from amid the universal forward-hurrying throng, what then?  If you have done something that can be mentioned, in art or letters or science, the newspapers may toss you a paragraph; or if you have been a notorious criminal or charlatan or windbag, they may even devote a leader to you; but the multitude—­what time have they to think?  A careless eye glances at the couple of obituary lines that have been paid for by relatives; then onwards again.  Perhaps, here and there, one solitary heart is struck deep, and remembers; but the ordinary crowd of one’s acquaintances—­what time have they?  Good-bye, friend!—­but we are in such a hurry!” Nevertheless, he was glad to tell Lionel of these callers, and of their flowers and cards and messages and what not.

On this Tuesday afternoon Miss Burgoyne also called; but, hearing that there were some relations come, she would not go up-stairs.  Maurice went down to see her.

“What brought on this fever?” she asked, after the usual inquiries.

“A variety of causes, I should imagine,” he answered.  “The immediate one was a severe chill.”

“They say he has lost all his money and is deeply in debt,” she observed.

“Who says?” he demanded—­too sharply, for he did not like this woman.

“Oh, I have heard of it,” she answered.

“It is not true then.  I don’t know of his being in debt at all; if he is, he has friends who will see him through until he gets all right again.”

“Oh, well,” she said, apparently much relieved, “it is of no great consequence, so long as his voice is not touched.  With his voice he can always retrieve himself and keep well ahead.  They do tell such stories.  Thank you, Mr. Mangan.  Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” said he, with unnecessary coldness; why should a disciple of Marcus Aurelius take umbrage at any manifestation of our common human nature?

She turned for a moment as he opened the door for her.

“Tell him I called; and that his portrait and mine are to appear in this week’s Footlights—­in the same number.”

“Very well.”

“Good-bye!”

When Dr. Ballardyce came that evening to make his usual examination, his report was of a twofold character:  the fever was still ravaging the now enfeebled constitution—­the temperature, in especial, being seriously high; but the patient seemed much calmer in mind.