Under the impression that she was Mrs. Champion, the housekeeper, but perfectly satisfied with her words, he gave up the fiddle obediently and lay down. The doctor nodded his approval and left a few moments later to send the telegram to Joyselle. And Brigit sat down by the bed and waited.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The weather had changed suddenly, and although it was only the 14th of September, it was cold and cheerless that afternoon.
Brigit, who had been sent out for a walk, tramped steadily down the road towards the village, her hands in her jacket pockets, her chin buried in her little boa.
Tommy was very ill; the London doctor had confirmed old Dr. Long's opinion: an over-developed mind in an under-developed body. These words in themselves were not very alarming, but Brigit's heart had sunk as Sir George uttered them.
"Is he—is he going to die?" she asked abruptly. Sir George hesitated. "We scientists are supposed to be atheists, my dear young lady," he returned, looking at his watch, "but I believe in God. And in all reverence I can say in this case that only He can tell. Lord Kingsmead is very weak, and I greatly dislike the abnormal activity of his brain, but—God is good. So let us hope."
Then the great man had gone.
By the 5.10 express Joyselle was coming. He had been out of town the day before, and the delay had been maddening. But now he was coming, and Brigit pinned her faith to the effects of his presence with savage fanaticism.
"He must help him," she repeated over and over again; "he loves him so."