“I am not going,” said Singh quietly. “The Doctor sent me up here to stop.”
“Has he?” cried Glyn. “Oh, hurrah! Here, Mrs Hamton, another patient for you to make decent.—I say, Singhy, she’s just come from old Slegge. I’m afraid I’ve made his face in a horrible mess.”
“You have indeed, my dear,” said the housekeeper reproachfully. “But oh, what a pity it is that young gentlemen will so far forget themselves! It grieves me; it does indeed.”
“But I don’t forget myself,” protested Glyn. “I was obliged to fight. You wouldn’t have had me lie down and let him knock both of us about for nothing, would you, nurse—I mean Mrs Hamton?”
“Oh, don’t ask me, my dear; it’s not for me to say; and you needn’t mind calling me nurse, for it always sounds nice and pleasant to me. There, now, doesn’t that feel cool and comforting?”
“Lovely,” cried Glyn softly, and as he looked up in the pleasant face, with its grey curls on either side, his eyes for the moment, what could be seen of them, seemed to be sparkling with mischief and mirth, for there was a feeling of pride and triumph at his success swelling in his breast, and a few moments later, so great was the comfort he experienced under the delicate manipulation of his motherly attendant’s hands, that he looked up at her and began to smile—only began, for he uttered an ejaculation of pain.
“Oh, my dear, did I hurt you?” cried the housekeeper.
“No,” said the boy, in rather a piteous tone; “it was my face. It’s all stiff and queer.”
“Yes, I told you that it was one-sided,” said Singh merrily.
“Well, never mind, my dear; it will soon be better,” said the housekeeper soothingly. “But you must do exactly what I tell you, and be very patient and still.”