Colonel Dacre made this concession readily enough, and as Doctor May found he was likely to be rather an intractable patient, he gave the necessary orders at once.
In another hour Colonel Dacre found himself in new quarters high up at the back of the house, where it was cooler and quieter both.
He was given over to a chambermaid now, and welcomed the amendment, for her step was lighter, her service more gentle. She even showed a certain interest in his state, and wanted to know if he hadn’t a mother, or a wife, or any one to take care of him, sighing sympathetically when he declared himself to be alone in the world.
Colonel Dacre thought the matter over very exhaustively that evening. Doctor May, who paid him a visit at about nine, had given him an opiate which soothed his nerves, and kept him quiet, although it did not make him sleep, and therefore he had plenty of time for reflection.
Strange to say, his head was singularly clear all that night, but toward morning he found his mind wandering off, and was very angry with himself, persisting in thinking it must be his own fault.
When Doctor May called in the morning, Colonel Dacre evidently looked upon his visit as an intrusion, but was careful to be distantly polite.
“I have a vague recollection of having seen you before,” he said; “but my memory is so bad I cannot recall your name.”
“I am Doctor May; you sent for me yesterday, you know,” answered the other quietly. “I am afraid you are not feeling so well.”
“Nothing much the matter—all right to-morrow,” he muttered hoarsely. And then he added, in a confidential tone: “Will you do something for me?”
“Willingly, if I can.”