He smiled up at her. "Not hurt, my child. Killed," he said, dramatic to the last....
The negro did not run. In return for his defender's heroism, he performed a small act of heroism himself—not so small either, perhaps, considering that his life depended upon what use he made of the next few hours.
"I'll tote him to de car, lady," he offered, pantingly; and delayed further to give the paralyzed chauffeur instructions as to where to find the nearest doctor.
Joan sat on the floor of the limousine with her father's head in her lap, only half aware of his labored, fluttering breath, of the blood upon her dress, of her step-mother's wild pleadings with him just to look at her, just to say one word to his Effie May, who loved him—
She was strangely exalted. Her mind seemed to have slipped into a region of consciousness where things were made suddenly clear to her, troubling questions answered, doubts set forever aside.
"A gentleman," she kept repeating to herself. "A gentleman!"
It seemed to her in that moment a great thing to have been born a gentleman, even if one became nothing more; to know that whatever the fortunes of life, one would be able to meet them gallantly and unafraid, because of a something within stronger than personal will or habit: the sum of the wills and habits of many ancestors. She was sorry for the canaille, the Effie Mays, who had no such inner power to rely upon....
As they carried him into a doctor's office, Richard Darcy's eyes opened. They passed the face of his frantic wife unseeing, and came to rest upon Joan in some anxiety.
"You all right, Dollykins? Must not allow—mere trifle like this—upset—"
"Nothing shall upset me, Father," she said, smiling at him.