Thenceforward his visits dropped to once a day, but he always gave her a sympathy that amazed her with its intuition. His kindly concern for her welfare never failed, even when he had finally loosened her chain, and drawn her back from the abyss into safety.
But he would not hear of her being moved. “You’ve had a very stiff time,” he said. “And you’ve got to rest. You’re in excellent hands. The Dermots all love having you. So why worry?”
“Because they don’t know me. Because I am a stranger,” she made answer at last, when her strength had returned sufficiently for her to feel the difficulties of her position. “I can make no return to them for their kindness. I have got to make my living. I have no money.”
“Is kindness ever repaid by money?” he said, with a smile in his shrewd eyes. “You can’t go yet. I won’t sanction it. That heart of yours has got to tick better than it does at present—a long way better—before you think of earning your living again.”
“Then I must go to a hospital,” said Frances desperately, “I can’t go on in this way. I really can’t.”
“You’ll do as you’re told,” said old Dr. Square with a frown. “And you’ll take cream—plenty of it—every day.”
Then he went away, and Frances was left to fume in solitude.
“You’re fretting,” said Nurse Dolly severely when she took her temperature a little later. “That’s very wrong of you and quite unnecessary. Now you will have to take a sedative.”
She did not want the sedative. She was approaching that stage of convalescence when fretting is almost a necessity, and she fought against any palliative. But Dolly would take no refusal, and in the end, with tears of weakness, she had to submit.
“There now!” said Dolly practically, when she had won the day. “What a pity to upset yourself like that! Now don’t cry any more! Just go to sleep!”