"That had not occurred to me."
"You'd better," she advised. "And take the key away in your pocket. … Is that all, Uncle Copas?"
"That is all, Corona. But as for taking the key, you know that I would far sooner trust to your honour."
"You can trust to that, right enough," said she, getting off the edge of the bed. "I was thinking of daddy.… Good night, Uncle Copas!—if you don't mind, I am going to undress."
Brother Copas withdrew. He shut and locked the door firmly, and made a pretence, by rattling the key, of withdrawing it from the lock. But his nerve failed him, and he could not actually withdraw it. "Suppose the child should be taken ill in the night: or suppose that her nerve breaks down, and she cries for her father.… It might kill him if he could not open the door instantly. Or, again, supposing that she holds out until he has undressed and gone to bed? He will start up at the first sound and rush across the open quadrangle—Lord knows if he would wait to put on his dressing-gown— to get the key from me. In his state of health, and with these nights falling chilly, he would take his death."
So Brother Copas contented himself with turning the key in the wards and pointing to it.
"She is going to bed," he whispered. "Supperless, you understand. … We must show ourselves stern: it will be the better for her in the end, and some day she will thank us."
Brother Bonaday eyed the door sadly.
"To be sure, we must be stern," he echoed. As for being thanked for this severity, it crossed his mind that the thanks must come quickly, or he would probably miss them. But he muttered again, "To be sure— to be sure!" as Brother Copas tiptoed away and left him.
On his way back to his lonely rooms, Brother Copas met and exchanged "Good evenings" with Nurse Branscome.