“I shall never forgive myself for shooting Superbus—in the toe,” he said in a tone of bitter regret.
Bobbie laughed.
“You sound as though you’d like to have shot him through the head,” he said, and Mr. Dempsi recoiled before the bloodthirsty suggestion.
“I? Heaven forbid! I admire Superbus. He is to me most admirable.”
“He shouldn’t have slept,” said Diana. “He promised me that if he did fall off, he would have one eye open. Those were his words. I don’t know how he would manage, but he was so confident that I didn’t come down to look.”
She ran to the door. The tap, tap of a stick on the parquet floor of the hall announced the coming of the invalid, his right foot a picturesque cushion of white bandages. There was a crutch under one arm, and he heaved himself forward in jerks. To Diana he accorded a wan smile. Bobbie took one arm, Mr. Dempsi the other. They reached the sofa to the accompaniment of many grunts and “ughs.”
“You are feeling better, Mr. Superbus?”
He shook his head, being unwilling at this early stage to dispense with the anxiety, the care and the apprehension that was his due.
“Middling, ma’am, middling. Naturally, I’m a little bit shook up. I always get that way when I figure in a shooting affray—if I may use the term—and I’ve been in a few in my time. I’ll tell you about them one day, miss. But this, in a way, is the worst, and I admit I don’t feel up to the mark. What my good lady will say when she finds I’ve lost a toe——”
He shook his head mournfully. Diana tried to cheer him.