But things were not better, and the doctor, the next morning, looked very grave. "I think it bad to allow him to have his violin," he said; "it excites him and increases the fever. And—I think I should like a consultation."
Lady Kingsmead burst into tears and hurried from the room, but Brigit wrote a telegram, as dictated by the old doctor who had brought the boy into the world, to a famous physician in London, and a groom was sent galloping to the station to send it.
"Who is this person he always takes me for?" asked the doctor, polishing his glasses. "This morning he insisted on my—on my playing for him. I have never played anything except the cornet, when I was a young man. I—it very nearly upset me, Lady Brigit. I love Tommy."
Brigit flushed. "Wanted you to play the violin?" she returned.
"Yes. He has not done so until this morning for several days, but he quite insisted to-day."
"It must be—Joyselle. We—we know him very well, and Tommy adores him."
As she spoke the nurse came in.
"Would you mind coming, my lady? He is very restless and insists on trying to play. I can't quiet him at all——"
They went back into the sick-room and found Tommy sitting up in bed, holding his violin in the position for playing, and scolding in a sharp staccato voice because he couldn't find his bow.
"Tommy, dear," Brigit said quietly, suddenly seeing her way clear, "I am wiring the Master to come to see you. He will play for you. Now give me your violin and lie down like a good boy."