ancee_ only to-day--with
all to do, all to think of, how could I leave you? Oh, it is impossible;
my good Lucy, who is never unreasonable, she will know it, she will
understand. Besides, to what use, my Bice? She has nurses for day and
night. She has her dear husband, her good husband, to be with her. What
does a woman want more? You would be _de trop_. You would be out of
place. It would be a trouble to them. It would be a blame to me. And you
would take it, and bring it back and spread it, Bice--and perhaps Lord
Montjoie----"

Bice looked round her bewildered from one to another.

"Should I be _de trop_?" she said, turning to Sir Tom with anxious eyes.

Sir Tom looked at her with an air of singular emotion. He laid his hand
caressingly on her shoulder: "_De trop_? no; never in my house. But that
is not the question. Lucy will be cheered when she knows that you wanted
to come. But what the Contessa says is true; there are plenty of
nurses--and my wife--has me, if I am any good; and we would not have you
run any risk----"

"In her position!" cried the Contessa; "_fiancee_ only to-day. She owes
herself already to Lord Montjoie, who would never consent, never; it is
against every rule. Speak to her, _mon ami_, speak to her; she is a girl
who is capable of all. Tell her that now it is thought criminal, that
one does not risk one's self and others. She might bring it here, if not
to herself, to me, Montjoie, the domestics." The Contessa sank into a
chair and began fanning herself; then got up again and went towards the
girl clasping her hands. "My sweetest," she cried, "you will not be
_entetee_, and risk everything. We shall have news, good news, every
morning, three, four times a day."

"And Milady," said Bice, "who has done everything, will be alone and in
tr-rouble. Sir Tom, he must leave her, he must attend to his affairs. He
is a man; he must take the air; he must go out in the world. And
she--she will be alone: when we have lived with her, when she has been
more good, more good than any one could deserve. Risk! The doctor does
not take it, who is everywhere, who will, perhaps, come to you next,
Madama; and the nurses do not take it. It is a shame," cried the girl,
throwing up her fine head, "if Love is not as good as the servants, if
to have gratitude in your heart is nothing! And the risk, what is it? An
illness, a fever. I have had a fever----"

"Bice, you might bring--what is dreadful to think of," cried the