He took a look round. The light from the window was growing dim, and the pain in his ear had vanished. Denham, near at hand, was leaning back in the only pretence at an easy-chair which the room held. His head rested against the wall, and he seemed to be heavily asleep.
Boys of twelve are not always very thoughtful about other people, but an odd feeling came over Roy, as he noted the fine-looking young soldier in that attitude of utter weariness. Through his illness he had actually never once seen Ivor asleep till now.
"He must be tired, I'm sure. But I wish he'd wake."
The door opened slowly, and Roy's eyes grew round with surprise. Nobody entered this infected place, as he knew, except Ivor, the doctor, and the old woman. This newcomer stepped quietly up to the bed. She was quite a girl, perhaps two or three years older than Polly. She was very slight, with a neatly-fitting dress. The lighted candle in her hand threw a glow upon her face. It was a sweet face, delicate and gentle, and it would have been exceedingly pretty but for the evident ravages of a long-past attack of smallpox. There were no "pits" on her skin, but a certain soft roughness marked the whole, as if it had once been closely covered with pits. The face was pale, its features were even, short black hair curled over a wide forehead, and the dark eyes were full of sadness.
Roy put out his hand involuntarily, only to snatch it back.
"I forgot. Den told me I must not touch anybody except him—not even that ugly old woman. I'm so thirsty. I wish he'd wake up."
"Pauvre enfant!" She went to the table and brought a glass of milk, which Roy drank eagerly. Then she smoothed his bedclothes.
"But you ought not, you know," observed Roy's weak voice. "You might catch the smallpox. Den would make you go. Can you talk English?"
"Yes, I can talk English." She said the words in foreign style, with slow distinctness, but with a pure intonation. "I learnt English in your country. Yes, I have been there for three or four years. Monsieur votre frère—your brother—il a l'air très fatigué."
"Den isn't really my brother, only he's just like one. He's just Den, you know—Captain Denham Ivor, of His Majesty's Guards. He hasn't been to sleep for ever so long, and that's why he is tired. My ear has been awfully bad, for days and days. And Den was always here."