The woman’s tone was professionally matter-of-fact.
“Had I better go to her?” said Adrian, troubled, and seeming rather resentful at the fresh anxiety thrust upon him.
“I shouldn’t, if I were you. It’ll only upset her. She’s broken down a bit—hysterical. It’ll relieve her, in the end. I shan’t leave her now, till the doctor comes.”
Lucilla hysterical!
Owen, almost more amazed than concerned, watched the nurse depart to what she evidently looked upon as a fresh case.
“Well, I can’t do anything, I suppose,” said Adrian miserably.
“Go to bed,” Quentillian repeated. “Shall I draft out some telegrams for you, and let you see them before they go? It’s no use sending them to the post-office before eight.”
“Don’t you want to sleep yourself?”
“Not just now, thanks.”
“Well, I’ll relieve you at seven. Send someone to call me, will you?—though I don’t suppose I shall sleep.”