Brigit sat down by him. "Here's Bicky," she said, "with the Master's love for you, Tommy."
"He's gone away. Ratting with the Prince of Wales. Let's play his fiddle before he comes back. I've got that last exercise beautifully—only my little finger is so beastly short. If I'd been whipped when I was a kid it might have grown—there it goes! Hi, Pincher, after him!"
The nurse rose and moistened her patient's lips with water.
"How is he, nurse?" asked Brigit shortly.
"His throat's better, miss—my lady. But he's very weak. These active-minded little boys——"
"I know; I know," interrupted the girl hastily. "When will he know me?"
The nurse hesitated. How could she tell? The relations always did ask senseless questions. The Persian kitten, now grown to be a cat less Persian than had been expected, came into the room, and the nurse took it up and put it out. "He always comes; he's a perfect nuisance," she observed. "They get so used to places, cats, don't they?"
Brigit nodded. "I'll go and change," she said. "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Better take something to eat, my lady. The danger of infection is great, you know, and the tireder one is——"
"I know."