"See here," said Roger decidedly, "you waste a good deal too much energy bothering about that man's opinion. Tell him to go to hell."
"And where should I be?" she laughed spontaneously.
"Catching the first train out of Cannes, I suppose."
"No, I'm dashed if you would! Not if I had any say."
She looked up, thrilled by his warmth, and saw his laughing eyes grow serious as they dwelt on her. In that instant she had a certain knowledge that only his aunt's presence in the room prevented his kissing her.
There was a mist before her eyes and her breath came quickly as she went about her tasks. She recalled the odour of Roger's tweed clothing mingled with the indescribable masculine scent of his skin, and the memory caused her a thrill of joyous excitement. She began to believe that he did care for her. Oh, if only he really cared, if it wasn't the light sort of thing a man so easily feels and so readily forgets!
When she returned to the bedroom she noticed the doctor, with his back turned to her, standing by the window and rummaging through his black leather bag. At once she got a feeling of something wrong. The very lines of his figure suggested tension. Was he disturbed about something? If so, she couldn't imagine what it was. He said nothing, but presently followed her into the bathroom when she went there to replace the enamelled basin she had used for Roger's hand.
"Oh, Miss Rowe!" he said, speaking casually enough, yet with a sub-current of something indefinable which made her turn and look at him.
"Yes, doctor?"
He had the hypodermic case open in his hand.