Especially after despatching a telegram to Mr.Dudley Sowerby at Cronidge, and one to Nesta at Moorsedge, did she become stoutly nerved.

The former was requested to meet her at Penhurst station at noon.

Nesta was to be at the station for the Wells at three o'clock.
From the time of the flying of these telegrams, up to the tap of Victor's knuckle on her bed-room door next morning, she was not more reflectively conscious than a packet travelling to its destination by pneumatic tube.

Nor was she acutely impressionable to the features and the voice she loved.
'You know of Skepsey ?' she said.
'Ah, poor Skepsey!' Victor frowned and heaved.
'One of us ought to stand beside him at the funeral.' 'Colney or Fenellan ?' 'I will ask Mr.Durance.' 'Do, my darling.' 'Victor, you did not tell me of Dartrey's wife.' 'There again! They all get released! Yes, Dartrey! Dartrey has his luck too.' She closed her eyes, with the desire to be asleep.
'You should have told me, dear.' 'Well, my love! Well--poor Dartrey! I fancy I hadn't a confirmation of the news.

I remember a horrible fit of envy on hearing the hint: not much more than a hint: serious illness, was it ?--or expected event.
Hardly worth while to trouble my dear soul, till certain.