Whereupon memory returned like an electric shock.
This wasn't war-time. He had been jabbed in the back by somebody's hands; he had taken a half-turning dive over the ledge into mist, with a bell-note in his ears and panic in his vitals. Sheer incredulity at the fact of being alive shook him fully alert; and he looked round wildly.
At his bedside, to the right was a large face, squarish and wrinkled, with an acquiline nose and a steady grey eye.
"Captain Drake," said the Dowager Countess of Brayle.
Martin shut his eyes, and opened them again.
(And upon thy dazzling face, O madonna, I must first rest my eyes after being picked up off the flagstones and somehow pieced together. It couldn't be Jenny. It couldn't even be a good-looking nurse. It had to be you).
"Captain Drake," pursued Lady Brayle, "I will tell you very briefly what you wish to know. First: you are in the bedroom of the late Sir George Fleet Second: the time is nearly ten o'clock on Sunday night Third: Dr. Laurier has had to put five stitches across your forehead. Aside from this and some bad bruises, you have suffered no hurt"
Martin, propped up on both elbows, was staring at her incredulously.
"No — hurt," repeated Lady Brayle, with measured emphasis. "Dr. Laurier has kept you under opiates all day, in case there were effects of shock. I thought it unnecessary; and indeed," she glanced at him, "that appears to be the case."
Martin leaned back on his pillow, head aching, to consider this. Then he pushed himself up again.