"
"As good that as anything else. I often think what a miserably restless
invalid _I_ should make. But now, what's wrong with you?"
"Well, I suppose it's the heart."
"The heart?"
"The doctors say so. No doubt they are right; those complaints are
hereditary, and my father had it. I got quite unfit for duty, and they
told me I must go away for change; so I wrote to Maude, and she took me
in."
"Yes, yes; we are glad to have you, and must try and get you well, Bob."
"Ah, I can't tell about that. He died of it, you know."
"Who?"
"My father. He was ill for some time, and it wore him to a skeleton, so
that people thought he was in a decline. If I could only get sufficiently
well to go back to duty, I should not mind; it is so sad to give trouble
in a strange house."
"In a strange house it might be, but it would be ungrateful to call this
one strange," returned Lord Hartledon, smiling on him from his pleasant
blue eyes. "We must get you to town and have good advice for you. I
suppose Hillary comes up?"
"Every-day."
"Does _he_ say it's heart-disease?"
"I believe he thinks it. It might be as much as his reputation is worth
to say it in this house."
"How do you mean?"
"My mother won't have it said. She ignores the disease altogether, and
will not allow it to be mentioned, or hinted at. It's bronchitis, she
tells everyone; and of course bronchitis it must be.
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