It was an anxiety-filled early evening. After Lady Jane had returned with her news, Lenox had written to McConnell offering any help he could give, down to the smallest errand. Now Lenox and Lady Jane waited, talking very little. At some point a light supper appeared before them, but neither ate. Twice Lenox sent a maid to McConnell’s house to inquire, and both times she came back without any new information.

At last, close to ten o’clock, McConnell himself appeared. He looked drawn and weary, his strong and healthy body somehow obscene.

“A glass of wine,” Lenox told Graham.

“Or whisky, better still, with a splash of water,” McConnell said miserably. He buried his head in his hands after Lenox led him to the sofa.

“Right away, sir,” said Graham and returned with it.

McConnell drank off half the glass before he spoke again. “We lost the child,” he said at last. “Toto will be well, however.”

“Damn it,” said Lenox. “I’m so sorry, Thomas.”

Lady Jane was pale. “I must go see her,” she said.

Lenox thought of all Toto’s long, prattling monologues about baby names and baby toys, about painting rooms blue or pink, about what schools a boy child would attend or what year a girl would come out in society. Lenox and Jane were to have stood godparents. He thought of that, too.

“She didn’t want to see anything of me. May you do better,” said McConnell.

Lady Jane left.

After some minutes Lenox said, “You have a long and happy future ahead, Thomas.”

“Perhaps,” said the doctor.

“Will you sleep here tonight?”

“Thanks, Lenox, but no. I have to return. In case Toto needs me.”

“Of course-of course.”

McConnell stifled a sob. “To think I once called myself a doctor.”

“She had every attention a woman could,” Lenox gently reminded his friend.

“Except the one she needed, perhaps.”