“Come to look after you,” said Wareham guardedly. “You’ve been tumbling into mischief.”
“Is Ella with you?”
“She’s playing about in Germany somewhere, and there was no getting at her in time. So Sir Michael approved of my coming instead.”
“Poor old dad!”
“I’m going to telegraph to him presently.”
“Lie to follow by post,” quoted Hugh, with a weak smile.
“No. I expect to tell him that the sight of me has given you a start.”
No answer came. Wareham perceived with a pang that Hugh’s boyish jollity had left him, and found himself wondering for the hundredth time whether disappointment had—not caused, but fed the fever. He dared put no questions, each one that suggested itself seeming to threaten excitement. At last he remarked that, considering the stones of Bergen, the room was fairly quiet. The nurse answered that this bedroom had been specially chosen on that account. She came and stood at the bottom of the bed, looking at her patient; and Wareham inquired in a low voice whether there were anything he could get?
She thought nothing. Colonel Martyn and Miss Dalrymple were careful to carry out all that could be suggested.
“He dozes a good deal.”