"Emmie, ring for some tea. Sir Cyril looks as if he needed it."
"I ought not to let you—but—" apologised Cyril, with a glance at the bell.
He began to feel that he had done a foolish thing in coming out before leave was granted. The jolting of the carriage had brought on a fit of pain in the injured arm and shoulder, momentarily waxing more severe; and Cyril was never good at enduring pain. It turned him yellow-white; and he dared not move.
"Don't stir, or try to talk," said Mrs. Lucas. "I am afraid you ought to have stayed at home. Emmie, dear, that bottle of strong salts—no, I cannot tell you exactly where it is. I shall find it more quickly myself."
Mrs. Lucas vanished, and Cyril rested his head against the chair-back. Emmie stood watching him, with a gaze full of distressful pity. She was always easily stirred by the sight of suffering. For some seconds, Cyril was too much occupied with himself to notice her. Then a fresh stab in the arm brought an uncontrollable start, a change of posture, and a sharp drawing in of his breath, as if he hardly knew how to bear it. A faint sob from Emmie made him look up, to see a pair of dark eyes overflowing, a pair of sweet lips quivering. He tried to smile and to reassure her.
"It doesn't matter. I shall be all right presently."
"Oh, but I am so sorry. It is so bad now."
Tea came in, and Emmie could hardly wait for the tray to be put down. She poured out, and brought the cup to his side, forgetting to cry in her eagerness.
"Let me hold it, please," she entreated. "You must keep still."
Cyril obeyed, by no means unwillingly. The dark rosy little face, with its mingled tears and smiles, looked wondrously attractive, bending so near his own; and as he lifted his left hand to steady the cup, it came in contact with her small soft fingers. She had such a tiny round plump hand, the very antipodes of Jean's long slender one. The touch sent a curious sensation through Cyril. He began to wonder—to feel almost sure—and yet he was not quite sure. He had to lean back and to close his eyes, till the fit of pain should lessen; and Mrs. Lucas returned with the salts; and Cyril tried to analyse his own state of mind, feeling the pulse of his mental being. But it would not do. He could come to no conclusion, and thinking made his head ache; so he gave in, and left matters to settle themselves.