"You may go, Saunders."

"Yes, my lord. I couldn't help it; I've outstepped my duty, my lord, but
I could not stand quiet and see your lordship dying by inches." Here Mr.
S. put a cambric handkerchief artistically to his eyes, and glided out,
having disarmed censure.

Lord Ipsden fell into a reverie.

"Is my mind or my body disordered? Dr. Aberford!--absurd!--Saunders is
getting too pragmatical. The doctor shall prescribe for him instead of
me; by Jove, that would serve him right." And my lord faintly chuckled.
"No! this is what I am ill of"--and he read the fatal note again. "I do
nothing!--cruel, unjust," sighed he. "I could have done, would have done,
anything to please her. Do nothing! nobody does anything now--things
don't come in your way to be done as they used centuries ago, or we
should do them just the same; it is their fault, not ours," argued his
lordship, somewhat confusedly; then, leaning his brow upon the sofa, he
wished to die. For, at that dark moment life seemed to this fortunate man
an aching void; a weary, stale, flat, unprofitable tale; a faded flower;
a ball-room after daylight has crept in, and music, motion and beauty are
fled away.

"Dr. Aberford, my lord."

This announcement, made by Mr. Saunders, checked his lordship's reverie.

"Insults everybody, does he not, Saunders?"