that was ineffectually covered by a curious silver necklace. Ralph offered her his arm with the exaggerated alertness of a man who was no longer a lover.

Even if this had still been his condition, however, Ralph had other things to think about. The great doctor spent the night at Gardencourt and, returning to London on the morrow, after another consultation with Mr Touchett’s own medical adviser, concurred in Ralph’s desire that he should see the patient again on the day following. On the day following Sir Matthew Hope reappeared at Gardencourt, and now took a less encouraging view of the old man, who had grown worse in the twenty-four hours. His feebleness was extreme, and to his son, who constantly sat by his bedside, it often seemed that his end must be at hand. The local doctor, a very sagacious man, in whom Ralph had secretly more confidence than in his distinguished colleague, was constantly in attendance, and Sir Matthew Hope came back several times. Mr Touchett was much of the time unconscious; he slept a great deal; he rarely spoke. Isabel had a great desire to be useful to him and was allowed to watch with him at hours when his other attendants (of whom Mrs Touchett was not the least regular) went to take rest. He never seemed to know her, and she always said to herself ‘Suppose he should die while I’m sitting here’, an idea which excited her and kept her awake. Once he opened his eyes for a while and fixed them upon her intelligently, but when she went to him; hoping he would recognize her, he closed them and relapsed into stupor. The day after this, however, he revived for a longer time; but on this occasion Ralph only was with him. The old man began to talk, much to his son’s satisfaction, who assured him that they should presently have him sitting up.

‘No, my boy,’ said Mr Touchett, ‘not unless you bury me in a sitting posture, as some of the ancients—was it the ancients?—used to do.’

‘Ah, daddy, don’t talk about that,’ Ralph murmured. ‘You mustn’t deny that you’re getting better.’

‘There will be no need of my denying it if you don’t say it,’ the old man answered. ‘Why should we prevaricate just at the last? We never prevaricated before. I’ve got to die some time, and it’s better to die when one’s sick than when one’s well. I’m very sick—as sick as I shall ever be. I hope you don’t want to prove that I shall ever be worse than this? That would be too bad. You don’t? Well then.’

Having made this excellent point he became quiet; but the next time that Ralph was with him he again addressed himself to conversation. The nurse had gone to her supper and Ralph was alone in charge, having just relieved Mrs Touchett, who had been on guard since dinner. The room was lighted only by the flickering fire, which of late had become necessary, and Ralph’s tall shadow was projected over wall and ceiling with an outline constantly varying but always grotesque.

‘Who’s that with me—is it my son?’ the old man asked.

‘Yes, it’s your son, daddy.’

‘And is there no one else?’

‘No one else.’

Mr Touchett said nothing for a while; and then, ‘I want to talk a little,’ he went on.

‘Won’t it tire you?’ Ralph demurred.

‘It won’t matter if it does. I shall have a long rest. I want to talk about you.’

Ralph had drawn nearer to the bed; he sat leaning forward with his hand on his father’s. ‘You had better select a brighter topic.’

‘You were always bright; I used to be proud of your brightness. I should like so much to think you’d do something.’