At the question, Dr. Howard looked up. Still a little breathless and dishevelled by her hurried scramble up the hill, Nancy stood before him, anxiety in her eyes and a laugh on her lips.
“How is the British Lion?”
“Most uncommonly disagreeable,” the doctor answered, with unwonted energy.
“So I found out; but he has occasional lucid intervals. How is his ankle?”
“Bad. For his own sake, I wish he had broken it outright. Nancy, what am I going to do with the fellow?”
Nancy dropped down into a chair, and smoothed her ruffled hair into some semblance of order.
“Cure him,” she answered nonchalantly.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders.
“It takes two to make a cure.”
“Then hire Père Gagnier to cart him back to Sainte Anne again, and let her try her finger upon him.”