“I don’t care a straw for that,” said Edgar. “I’ll answer for little Wyn. He shall bring me here again to-morrow, if possible; in any case he shall come himself. When I understand dearly I can tell my father that I’ve seen you, and everything else you think proper.”
“No, no,” said Alwyn, almost laughing at the coolness with which this fragile, helpless brother proposed to face the difficulty for him. “You were always a plucky fellow, but when the time comes I’ll make my own confession. I’ll go now.”
But he still lingered.
“Ought you to be alone?” he said. “Do you want anything? You will not be the worse for the fright I gave you?”
“No. I’m quite jolly. If you’ll just put this cushion lower for me, that’s all, so that I can lie down.”
“I am too rough to touch you. There—is that right, dear boy?” said Alwyn, anxiously.
“Oh yes, you are very clever!” said Edgar.
He spoke lightly; but suddenly tears filled the keen eyes at the touch that was more tender than all the skilled attention at his command.
“I’m glad you’re found, Val; it’s been rather lonely,” he said.
“If I had guessed!” said Alwyn hoarsely; but at this moment a tremendous rush was heard, and Wyn’s voice in loud tones of dismay broke in on them.