The absolute calmness with which he spoke took effect upon Piers. He yielded, albeit not very willingly, to the mandate.
They laid her down upon the pillow between them, and then for many seconds Wyndham stood, closely watching, almost painfully intent. Piers waited dumbly, afraid to move, afraid to speak.
The doctor turned to him at last. "What about that meal you spoke of?
Shall we go down and get it?"
Piers stared at him. "I am not leaving her," he said in a quick whisper.
Wyndham's hand was on his shoulder again—a steady, compelling hand. "Oh yes, you are. I want to talk to you," he said. "She is sleeping naturally, and she won't wake for some time. Come!"
There was nothing peremptory about him, yet he gained his end. Piers rose. He hung for a moment over the bed, gazing hungrily downwards upon the shadowy, motionless form, then in silence turned.
Tudor had risen. He met them in the doorway, and between him and the
London doctor a few words passed. Then the latter pushed his hand through
Piers' arm, and drew him away.
They descended the wide oak stairs together and entered the dining-room. Piers moved like a man dazed. His companion went straight to the table and poured out a drink, which he immediately held out to Piers, looking at him with eyes that were green and very shrewd.
"I think we shall save her," he said.
Piers drank in great gulps, and came to himself. "I say, I'm beastly rude!" he said, with sudden boyishness. "For goodness' sake, help yourself! Sit down, won't you?"