“I do. I thought you knew.”
“I was a little puzzled. She was very quiet and very—useful. But she looked—almost as if she were going mad. Yes, I suppose it is so.”
“If he recovers, they marry,” said the King. “At least you will find it very difficult to prevent it; and he will not go to England, you know. But he has lost very much blood. Perhaps—”
“Don’t say that,” said Lechworthy, sharply.
For a moment or two he smoked and meditated. Then he went on: “It will have to be as Hilda says. I daren’t interfere in such a case—wouldn’t anyhow. If any man has the right to her, then he has. Not a great marriage, of course—there will be people in London who will think she has thrown herself away. They’ll condole, I daresay, and make themselves unpleasant in other ways too. But there are too many people in England who sacrifice too much to get the good opinion of a few others who don’t really care for them. Are you awake?”
The King opened his eyes. “Awake? Oh, yes. What was the name of that thing Miss Auriol put on his arm?”
“Tourniquet.”
“Ah, tourniquet—new word to me. I must remember.” And in two seconds he was fast asleep.
Lechworthy watched him with a smile, and then closed his own eyes. His pipe slipped out of his mouth and fell on the floor beside him. He also slept.
When he woke again, the King had gone and Hilda stood on the verandah beside him.