"You can tell me later. I only regret one thing, that you did not tell me at once how hurt your arm was."
"You could have done nothing. Poor old Nixon was the injured one. He had to be carried." Then she leant her head back and closed her eyes.
When they reached home, she went straight to bed, but her husband came to the door of her room the last thing at night.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
She tried to speak lightly.
"A little top-heavy and giddy, but I shall be all right in the morning."
"Brenda had better sleep in your room."
"Oh no, indeed, I do not want her."
He went down the passage and called to Brenda. "Your mistress ought not to be left to-night. She's very feverish. Take your mattress in and sleep on the floor, or there's a couch there—you can sleep on that, if you take your bedding in. Keep up the fire, and give her some milk in the night if she wants anything. That can't hurt her."
Brenda meekly obeyed. When Anstice remonstrated, she said it was the master's orders.