“Ill in bed,” answered her ladyship, with a gravity which startled even Felix himself.  “I wish to speak to you about Tommie.  You know everybody.  Do you know of a good dog-doctor?  The person I have employed so far doesn’t at all satisfy me.”

“Professional person?” inquired Felix.

“Yes.”

“All humbugs, my dear aunt.  The worse the dog gets the bigger the bill grows, don’t you see?  I have got the man for you—­a gentleman.  Knows more about horses and dogs than all the veterinary surgeons put together.  We met in the boat yesterday crossing the Channel.  You know him by name, of course?  Lord Rotherfield’s youngest son, Alfred Hardyman.”

“The owner of the stud farm?  The man who has bred the famous racehorses?” cried Lady Lydiard.  “My dear Felix, how can I presume to trouble such a great personage about my dog?”

Felix burst into his genial laugh.  “Never was modesty more woefully out of place,” he rejoined.  “Hardyman is dying to be presented to your Ladyship.  He has heard, like everybody, of the magnificent decorations of this house, and he is longing to see them.  His chambers are close by, in Pall Mall.  If he is at home we will have him here in five minutes.  Perhaps I had better see the dog first?”

Lady Lydiard shook her head.  “Isabel says he had better not be disturbed,” she answered.  “Isabel understands him better than anybody.”

Felix lifted his lively eyebrows with a mixed expression of curiosity and surprise.  “Who is Isabel?”

Lady Lydiard was vexed with herself for carelessly mentioning Isabel’s name in her nephew’s presence.  Felix was not the sort of person whom she was desirous of admitting to her confidence in domestic matters.  “Isabel is an addition to my household since you were here last,” she answered shortly.

“Young and pretty?” inquired Felix.  “Ah! you look serious, and you don’t answer me.  Young and pretty, evidently.  Which may I see first, the addition to your household or the addition to your picture-gallery?  You look at the picture-gallery—­I am answered again.”  He rose to approach the archway, and stopped at his first step forward.  “A sweet girl is a dreadful responsibility, aunt,” he resumed, with an ironical assumption of gravity.  “Do you know, I shouldn’t be surprised if Isabel, in the long run, cost you more than Hobbema.  Who is this at the door?”

The person at the door was Robert Moody, returned from the bank.  Mr. Felix Sweetsir, being near-sighted, was obliged to fit his eye-glass in position before he could recognize the prime minister of Lady Lydiard’s household.

“Ha! our worthy Moody.  How well he wears!  Not a gray hair on his head—­and look at mine!  What dye do you use, Moody?  If he had my open disposition he would tell.  As it is, he looks unutterable things, and holds his tongue.  Ah! if I could only have held my tongue—­when I was in the diplomatic service, you know—­what a position I might have occupied by this time!  Don’t let me interrupt you, Moody, if you have anything to say to Lady Lydiard.”