“Hm—Constitution, Miss Hare. That chap had a solid ancestry. He ought to have had a relapse and died, and he 'll be out in a week.”
Another voice said in an awed whisper:
“He's like my Saint George!”
“Hm—Legendary? This St. G. looks as if he'd made up with his devil. Looks as if they'd been tolerably good friends.”
A third voice remonstrated:
“Doctor!”
“Hm, hm—My nonsense, Miss Gracia, my nonsense.”
The two ladies and the doctor went out.
It was a long, low room, white, fragrant, and fresh. Soft white curtains waved in open windows, and outside the late sunlight drifted shyly through the pale green leaves of young maples. There were dainty things about, touches of silk and lace, blue and white china on bureau and dressing-table, a mirror framed with gilded pillars at the sides and a painted Arcadia above.
“Well, if I ain't an orphan!” grumbled Sandy, feebly.