“Doctor—please.”
“Nonsense, man,” cried Portlock, bluffly. “Why, wheres your heart? Pluck up a bit. You don’t want a doctor for a bit of a crack like that.”
“Oh, uncle, you are cruel!” cried Sage. “I am sure he is very much hurt.”
Her hand received a tender squeeze in response to this, and, in spite of her present misery, Sage felt her heart begin to glow.
“Not I, my lass,” said the Churchwarden, in his bluff way. “Perhaps some one else thinks that you are.”
Sage sank lower, and hid her face upon Cyril’s hand.
“Let us send one of the lads,” said Mrs Portlock.
“All right,” said the Churchwarden, good-humouredly. “Send word up to the rectory that Mr Cyril has had a bit of an accident—mustn’t say you’ve been fighting, eh?”
Cyril moaned softly, but did not speak.
“Say that he has had a bit of an accident, and that he won’t be home for an hour or two. Would you like him to come round by the town and tell Vinnicombe to come up?”