But Miss Moines was too systematic to have companions in the room without marshaling them to some form of duty. They needed to eat; they needed to sleep. Now and then someone had to go out on the landing and comfort or reassure Steptoe, who sat on the attic stairs like a grief-stricken dog.
Letty was the first to consent to go and lie down. She did so about nine o’clock, extracting a promise that whatever happened she would be called at twelve. If there was any change in the meantime—but that, Miss Moines assured her, was understood in all such ride-and-tie arrangements. At twelve Letty was to return and Barbara lie down till three, with the same proviso in case of the unexpected. But, so to put it, the unexpected seemed improbable, in view of that rigid form, and the white, upturned face.
“And yet,” Miss Moines confided to Barbara, “I don’t think he’s as far gone as they think. Miss Gallifer only changed her mind when they talked her round. A doctor just sees the patient in glimpses, whereas a nurse lives with him, and knows what he can stand.”
About eleven Miss Moines closed Keith Macdermot’s Destiny, and took the pulse. She nodded as she did so, with a slight exclamation of triumph. “Ah, ha! Fifty-eight! That’s the first good sign. It may not mean anything, but––”
Barbara was too exhausted to feel more than a gleam of comfort. The lassitude being emotional rather than physical Miss Moines detected it easily enough, and sent her to rest before the hour agreed upon. She went the more willingly, since the pulse had risen and hope could begin once more.
On the stairs Steptoe raised his bowed head, with a dazed stare. Seeing Miss Walbrook he stumbled to his feet.
“’Ow is ’e now, miss?”
She told him the good news.
“Ah, thank God! Perhaps after all ’E’ll spare ’im.”