“What’s been the matter with me?”
“Nothing very serious, Lord Somerville,” cheerily replied Sir Edward Bartley. “You are all right now; but you must not excite yourself. Now, now, don’t look round in that way.” And the eminent surgeon laid his soft hand on his patient’s wrist.
“This is strange, Sir Edward. Have the carpets and curtains come back?” and two tears trickled down Lionel’s emaciated cheeks.
“Sh, sh! that’s all right.” Sir Edward turned to the valet, who stood close by. “Temple, you must put some more ice on your master’s head. That same idea is haunting him; and we shall have him delirious again if we don’t look out.”
“No, Sir Edward,” murmured Gwendolen Towerbridge, seated at the foot of the bed. “Lord Somerville is all right, leave him to me, and you will find him perfectly well when you return this afternoon.” The eminent surgeon took Gwen’s hand in his own and looked intently into her face.
“My dear young lady, you have already saved his life; for no trained nurse could have shown more skill, more tact, than you have done throughout this alarming case. It is a perfect mystery to me how a fashionable and spirited young girl like you could, in one day, become such a clever nurse and a devoted woman.”
“Ah! that is my secret, Sir Edward.” Gwen looked down blushingly. “But some day I may tell it you, if he allows me.”
“Well, well,” and he gently patted her hand, “I leave the patient in your hands; if you can bring him round to a saner view of his surroundings, you will have done a great deal; for he is quite unhinged, and I am not sure that his brain is not affected.”
“Oh dear, no! my dear Sir Edward, Lord Somerville is quite sane; who knows, perhaps even saner than you or I.”
“Poor, dear lady, I am afraid the strain has been too much for you, and we shall have you laid up if you persist in not taking a rest.” And Sir Edward silently left the room, followed by Temple.