“Sir, I did not speak,” said Mr. Digby, meekly.
“But Miss here did.”
“Ah, sir!” said Helen, plaintively, “if you knew how Papa suffers!” And her hand again moved towards the obnoxious window.
“No, my dear; the gentleman is in his right,” said Mr. Digby; and, bowing with his wonted suavity, he added, “Excuse her, sir. She thinks a great deal too much of me.”
The passenger said nothing, and Helen nestled closer to her father, and strove to screen him from the air.
The passenger moved uneasily. “Well,” said he, with a sort of snort, “air is air, and right is right: but here goes—” and he hastily drew up the window.
Helen turned her face full towards the passenger with a grateful expression, visible even in the dim light.
“You are very kind, sir,” said poor Mr. Digby; “I am ashamed to—” his cough choked the rest of the sentence. The passenger, who was a plethoric, sanguineous man, felt as if he were stifling. But he took off his wrappers, and resigned the oxygen like a hero.
Presently he drew nearer to the sufferer, and laid hand on his wrist.
“You are feverish, I fear. I am a medical man. St!—one—two. Cott! you should not travel; you are not fit for it!”