'Well, don't talk,' he said, laying her hand down on the quilt—he had been holding it while his sharp eyes watched her—and giving it a brief pat of farewell. 'Just lie there and get better. I'll send something for your throat, and I'll look in again to-morrow.'
Miss Entwhistle went downstairs with him feeling as if she had buckled him on as a shield, and would be able, clad in such armour, to face anything Everard might say.
'She likes that room?' he asked abruptly, pausing a moment in the hall.
'I can't quite make out,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'We haven't had any talk at all yet. It was from that window, wasn't it, that——?'
'No. The one above;'
'The one above? Oh really.'
'Yes. There's a sitting-room. But I was thinking whether being in the same bed—well, good-bye. Cheer her up. She'll want it when she's better. She'll feel weak. I'll be round to-morrow.'
He went out pulling on his gloves, followed to the steps by Miss Entwhistle.
On the steps he paused again. 'How does she like being here?' he asked.
'I don't know,' said Miss Entwhistle. 'We haven't talked at all yet.'