, please."

Hopkins looked pained, but answered straightforwardly that, in his
opinion also, Mr. Chesney was in the habit of taking morphine
hypodermically.

"Why hypodermically?" asked Lady Wychcote.

"It is self-evident, your ladyship. His arms are in a terrible condition
from the use of the syringe."

Lady Wychcote grew pale. And Sophy, looking at her, thought how strange
it was that her random slander of herself (Sophy) had so come home to
her. She had accused her daughter-in-law of giving her son drugs--idly,
as she said such bitter, untrue things of people when displeased with
them, not counting the cost to others involved. She had noticed Cecil's
growing eccentricity, and in order to attribute it more directly to what
she termed his "disastrous" marriage, had accused Sophy of this dark
thing. And now--lo! the dark thing was no lie, but the truth--only it
was her son himself who was his own destroyer, not the woman whom she
hated.

She rallied suddenly, rearing her head back with the gesture habitual to
her.

"I wish to see for myself," she said haughtily, moving towards the door.
"He will not know. Show me these marks on his arms."

"No!" said Sophy, in a low voice, stepping in front of her.

"What! You try to prevent me from seeing my son?"

"I shall keep you from going to him while he is helpless--for such a
purpose."

She laid her hand on a bell near by.

"Let me pass," said Lady Wychcote, in a suffocated voice. Dr. Hopkins
looked the image of respectability in distress. The heavens would not
have been enough to cover him. He would have preferred something more
solid--the whole earth between him and these incensed ladies.

"No!" said Sophy again. "If you insist, I shall be forced to ring and
give orders that no one is to be admitted to my husband's room."

"You would dare do that?"

"I would do it. You are in my house, Lady Wychcote."

"My son's house...."

"I am his wife. I must do what I know that he would wish."

Just here Gaynor knocked at the door.

"Mr. Chesney is asking for you, madam," he said to Sophy.

"Does he know that I am here?" put in Lady Wychcote quickly.

"No, your ladyship. He is hardly himself yet. I have told him nothing."

"Are you going to see him?" asked she, in a hard, angry voice, turning
to Sophy.

"Yes."

"I suppose at least that you will have the--the...." She choked on the
word. She longed to say "decency," but the servant's presence forbade.
"... Th