Jean had never seen him so overcome.
"Nothing—not a scratch. See—only my dress!" she said reassuringly. "But—"
His lips touched her forehead, with a murmured—
"Thank God!"
And she hardly caught the words following, "I thought it was all up with my Jean."
Then he leant against the back of a tall arm-chair, a glazed look coming over his eyes, and Jean knew that he had difficulty in holding himself upright. Before she could speak, however, he had rallied, though not without a supreme effort of will.
"Merely a passing sensation—a touch of dizziness," he said cheerfully, in response to her glance. "Not worth attention. Come—" and he walked across the room, Jean following closely to the couch where Cyril had just been laid, white to the lips with pain.
Evelyn knelt to support his head, and Sybella hovered round about, in a state of incoherent though talkative distraction.
Cyril looked up at Mr. Trevelyan. "Jem has gone for Dr. Ingram," he said, bringing the words slowly. "I don't think it will be very much . . . The frame caught my shoulder . . . Don't touch, please—" with a shrinking gesture. "I'm only—so glad it wasn't Jean!"
Jean, to her own indignant surprise, actually burst into tears.