Things

								

besides three sizes of paper and envelopes, that there were cable
blanks, telegraph blanks, and postal cards, as well as stamps of all
varieties.
It was not Despard’s habit to notice life quite as much in detail as
this, but now it amused him to pursue the subject. Luxury he knew; but
this effective consideration he rated as something higher.

II

He had arrived on a Friday, and on Sunday at five--things were apt to
happen by a schedule in the Royce household--he was to give his report
on Celia.
He entered the library--the spot designated by Mrs. Royce--by one door
as Churchley, the butler, came in at the other to serve tea.
The dark, shining little table was brought out, noiselessly opened,
covered with a cloth--the wrong cloth, Mrs. Royce indicated. Churchley
whisked away and returned incredibly quickly with the right one. The
tray, weighted with silver and blossoming with the saffron flame
of the tea-kettle, was next put before her, and then another little
structure of shelves was set at her right hand. Her eye fell on this.
“I said brown-bread toast, Churchley.” The man murmured and again
whisked away.
All this time Despard had not sat down, although between orders Mrs.
Royce had more than once urged him to do so. He stood, having shut the
door behind him, leaning the point of his shoulder against the wall.
Utterly undisturbed by his calm eyes fixed upon her, Mrs. Royce said:
“Poor Churchley, he has been with us for six years, but I’m afraid I
can’t keep him. He forgets everything.”
“He’s on the edge of a nervous breakdown,” answered Despard coolly,
and he added: “The housemaid is a pronounced neurasthenic. As for your
daughter----”
“Ah, Celia, poor, dear child! Must we send her away?” her mother asked,
but before the doctor had time to answer, Churchley, by a miracle
of celerity, again entered, this time bearing toast of the desired
complexion.
After he had finally disappeared, Mrs. Royce busied herself with flame
and kettle and tea-caddy before she repeated her question, and her
voice had in it a faint sediment of these preoccupations:
“I hope you do not think it necessary to send Celia away, Dr. Despard?”
He drew a chair forward and sat down. “No, Mrs. Royce,” he said; “I
think it necessary to send you away.”
“Me?”
He bowed.
“But my health is excellent. Oh, I see,” she smiled. “My husband has
been talking to you about my responsibilities. Yes, they are great, but
one is given strength to do what is required of one. I shall not have
to desert my post. I am strong.”
“I know you are strong, Mrs. Royce,” said he, “but you are the cause of
weakness in others. We need not multiply examples: your daughter, the
governess, Churchley----”
She broke in--“Of course, I admit their weakness. But don’t you see
how I protect and support them? How could you imagine that I was the