When the doctor came in—he had just finished his breakfast—O'Higgins rose and presented his card. “He’s a Fellow of the Royal Society, and he can’t be much over thirty,” said Miss Klegg. Something in her voice and manner conveyed an effect of unwonted gravity to him. “It’s the stir of spring,” he said. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. “So Lucy, I hear that you are quite the violin player. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved.
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