VII
He could do nothing more to help her.
In the restless preoccupation that filled him, forty-eight hours later, Lucian went round to see the old pawnbroker in Ovington Street.
Felix Menebees opened the door, his face paler than ever and his hair all standing up on end. “How is she, doctor?” he inquired hoarsely.
“Very brave, Felix,” said the doctor kindly. “She’s gone to the country—to Squires, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Please to come in, doctor. The old man—Mr. Smith, I mean—he’s in a terrible way. It seems to have all broken him up, like. This and the war, coming together, like. Mr. Millar’s gone, doctor. He’s enlisted.”
“That’s fine. What about you?”
“They wouldn’t pass me,” said Felix, his face suffused by a strange, yellowish blush.
The doctor, looking at the slender, narrow-shouldered youth with his prominent eyes and pallid face, was not surprised to hear it.
“You tried, did you?”