Miss Cartwright was really ill. And of all who loved and cared for her,
there was not one who showed more affection than Cartouche. They had
thought that he was only a puppy, that nothing in the world was so much
to him as a run by the Arno or a frolic in the Cascine woods, but now,
when his mistress was ill, he could not be coaxed to either the one or
the other. He watched at her door, and, if he could get the chance,
crept into her room, and looked at her with questioning, loving eyes.
Once when the doctor came to her bed, to his alarm there rose up a black
form from the other side, growling angrily, and bent on resolute defence
of his mistress. And another time they found that he had dragged
together a heap of her shoes and slippers, over which he was keeping
watch and ward. Phillis was a great deal with her, Miss Cartwright
evidently liking the girl's companionship, and watching her as she sat
at the window with wistful interest.
"My dear," she said suddenly one day, "this stupid illness of mine
mustn't interfere with Jack's happiness. Remember, the wedding was to
be at Florence, and, perhaps, if it had not been for me, it would all
have been settled by this time."