“She received some unwelcome and quite unlooked-for intelligence before she started.  Had that anything to do with her death, do you think?”

“It may have produced an unfavorable effect,” said the physician, growing restive and taking up his gloves.  “The habit of referring such events to such causes is carried too far, as a rule.”

“No doubt.  I am curious because the event is novel in my experience.  I suppose it is a commonplace in yours.  Pardon me.  The loss of a lady so young and so favorably circumstanced is not a commonplace either in my experience or in my opinion.”  The physician held up his head as he spoke, in protest against any assumption that his sympathies had been blunted by his profession.

“Did she suffer?”

“For some hours, yes.  We were able to do a little to alleviate her pain—­poor thing!” He almost forgot Trefusis as he added the apostrophe.

“Hours of pain!  Can you conceive any good purpose that those hours may have served?”

The physician shook his head, leaving it doubtful whether he meant to reply in the negative or to deplore considerations of that nature.  He also made a movement to depart, being uneasy in conversation with Trefusis, who would, he felt sure, presently ask questions or make remarks with which he could hardly deal without committing himself in some direction.  His conscience was not quite at rest.  Henrietta’s pain had not, he thought, served any good purpose; but he did not want to say so, lest he should acquire a reputation for impiety and lose his practice.  He believed that the general practitioner who attended the family, and had called him in when the case grew serious, had treated Henrietta unskilfully, but professional etiquette bound him so strongly that, sooner than betray his colleague’s inefficiency, he would have allowed him to decimate London.

“One word more,” said Trefusis.  “Did she know that she was dying?”

“No.  I considered it best that she should not be informed of her danger.  She passed away without any apprehension.”

“Then one can think of it with equanimity.  She dreaded death, poor child.  The wonder is that there was not enough folly in the household to prevail against your good sense.”

The physician bowed and took his leave, esteeming himself somewhat fortunate in escaping without being reproached for his humanity in having allowed Henrietta to die unawares.

A moment later the general practitioner entered.  Trefusis, having accompanied the consulting physician to the door, detected the family doctor in the act of pulling a long face just outside it.  Restraining a desire to seize him by the throat, he seated himself on the edge of the table and said cheerfully: 

“Well, doctor, how has the world used you since we last met?”

The doctor was taken aback, but the solemn disposition of his features did not relax as he almost intoned:  “Has Sir Francis told you the sad news, Mr. Trefusis?”