“That’s right,” he said. “You’re better now.”
“Will you help me up?” she said.
“Of course.” He raised her steadily, closely watching the brown eyes, drawn with pain, that looked up to his. He saw them darken as she found her feet and was prepared for the sudden nervous clutch of her hand on his arm.
“Don’t let go of me!” she said hurriedly.
He helped her to a chair by the French window. “Sit here till you feel better! It’s a fairly cool corner. Is that all right?”
Her hand relaxed and fell. She lay back with a sigh. “Just for two minutes—not longer. I must get back to my work.”
“It’s that damned work that’s done it,” said Montague Rotherby, with unexpected force. “You’ll have to go on sick leave—for this afternoon at least.”
“Oh no,” said the secretary in her voice of quiet decision. “I have no time to be ill.”
Rotherby said no more, but after a pause he brought her a glass of water. She thanked him and drank, but the drawn look remained in her eyes and she moved as if afraid to turn her head.
He watched her narrowly. “You’ll have a bad break-down if you don’t take a rest,” he said.