Mrs Marks was much alarmed, and--whether Peters liked it or not--insisted on having a doctor.
When the doctor came downstairs she met him in the passage. "Well, sir?" she said.
"I can do nothing--might have done if I'd been called in years ago. It's the heart. He can't last long. Don't let him be excited, and I'll send you something to give him for these fainting attacks."
Mrs Marks was a hard woman, but she wiped her eyes with her apron. "He's been here so long, you see," she explained.
Peters protested against the doctor. It was a foolish expense, if he was certain to die.
"I've got a little put by--yes, that's true. But it's all to go to Elsa, you see, and I don't want any of it wasted."
The blinds were drawn in order that he might not be excited by seeing the felling of the tree; but he could hear the work going on, though he pressed his thin hands to his ears.
As the sun shone in at his window one morning, and he lay awake in bed, a big, swift shadow swept across the blind, and then came a deafening crash.
Peters half raised himself in bed, one hand on his heart. His voice came in a whisper, "My God!"
He sank quite gently back again on the bed, and did not move.
It was half-past six at night when she came down from the workrooms and out into the street. She was an intensely anæmic girl, neatly dressed, thin, tired. Given better health, she would not have been unattractive; given a better way of life, she would have had better health.
A gentleman of forty-five crossed the street towards her, raised his hat, and said, "You're late to-night."
She took absolutely no notice, and slightly quickened in her pace.
"Please do not hurry," he said. "I have so much to say to you." Then she turned round on him and was very furious. If he bothered her any more she would hand him over to the police.
"Pray don't misunderstand me," said the gentleman, plaintively; "I would not insult you or treat you with anything but the greatest respect on any account."
"Then what on earth do you want?" she said rather irritably.
"I will put it as briefly as I can. I happen to be very wealthy. I can enjoy nothing--the day for that has gone past for me. I wish for one night to see somebody else enjoy something. It had to be somebody who did not usually spend money freely; somebody who worked hard; somebody who had refinement and education. I thought, and I still think, that I have found all these things in you. Will you come with me? Dinner, a theatre or a music-hall, a little supper at the Carlton, and then my brougham shall drive you home. You will be rendering me the greatest possible service."