For why should Lady Fenimore have sent for me to see Sir Anthony, when he, strong and hearty, could have sent for me himself, or, for the matter of that, could have visited me at my own home?
The house looked stark and desolate.

And when we drew up at the front door and Pardoe, the elderly butler, appeared, his face too looked stark and desolate.
Marigold lifted me out and carried me up the steps and put me into a chair like my own which the Fenimores have the goodness to keep in a hall cupboard for my use.
"What's the matter, Pardoe ?" I asked.
"Sir Anthony and her ladyship will tell you, sir.

They're in the morning room." So I was shewn into the morning room--a noble square room with French windows, looking on to the wintry garden, and with a log fire roaring up a great chimney.

On one side of the fire sat Sir Anthony, and on the other, Lady Fenimore.

And both were crying.