"I have no reason, I am sure," Deane said slowly, "to doubt Miss Rowan's discretion."
She raised her eyes for a moment, and met his. The faint satire in his tone was intentionally provocative, but it failed to move her. Her regard of him was entirely impersonal. He looked away with a light shrug of the shoulders.
"Well, Rowan," he said, "it seems there is nothing further to be done. If the paper does turn up," he added, "I shall know how to deal with its holder. In the meantime, about yourself."
Rowan laughed a little hysterically. "About myself," he repeated. "That's a fruitful subject, isn't it?"
"Doctors make mistakes sometimes," Deane said. "Let us hope that they may have made one in your case. Anyhow, there is no reason why you should not be comfortable, and have the best medical advice. Go wherever you think best, and send me your address. I shall not forget that your accident took place when you were engaged upon my affairs."
"You are very good, Deane," Rowan said.
The girl looked up. "Mr. Deane's kindness is quite unnecessary," she said. "We are in no want of money."
"Your sister does not quite understand," Deane said, turning to him. "We have been through too many rough times in Africa together to stand upon ceremony now. You will perhaps be able to explain to her later on."
He took up his hat and turned toward the door. "I shall expect to hear from you," he said, "as soon as you have decided where to go,—either from you, Rowan," he added, shaking hands with him, "or from your sister."
"You are very kind, Deane," Rowan said. "I am sorry I have made such a mess of things."