"Quite so. Very violent, indeed, I presume. Was he abusive?"
"Yes."
"Mh. Well, it rests with you, and—er—Lady Wychfield—Wychcote. Quite so. I will not undertake the case under the present conditions. By the way—make no mistake about this man Naylor. He has been very faithful. If he had not succeeded in persuading his master to moderate the drug at times—well——" He paused; then said abruptly: "Mr. Chesney would probably be dead or a hopeless lunatic."
"Yes," said Sophy.
Carfew looked at her earnestly a few moments. Then his hard, acute visage softened.
"I see you're trying hard to be brave," he said. "You've had a severe shock. Allow me to prescribe for you at least."
"Thank you," she said faintly.
"Then go to bed, and let your maid rub you with alcohol—a soothing friction. Then darken your room and try to sleep."
"Thank you very much," said Sophy again, and this time she smiled faintly.
"Ha!—I know what that smile means. That it's easy for a medical ignoramus to prescribe sleep when there's no dose of that best of physics available. But believe me, my dear lady"—here his voice softened again—"exhaustion is double first-cousin to sleep—you are in a very exhausted condition. Only lie down as I advise you—even without the massage, if you shrink from that—and you will be asleep before you know it."