“I hope so, my dear; and you will shake hands with him, won’t you?”
“Yes,” said Glyn merrily, “as soon as he holds out his. I can afford to.—Can’t I, Singhy?”
“Oh yes, of course.”
“There,” said the old lady, “now that’s spoken nicely, and I don’t think I’ll bathe your face any more.—Now, my dear,” she continued to Singh, “it’s your turn.”
“Oh, mine doesn’t want doing, does it?” said the boy carelessly.
“Yes, my dear, and very badly too. If it isn’t bathed with my lotion it will go on swelling, and be more discoloured still.”
“Oh!” cried the boy eagerly.—“Here, you, Glyn, get up out of that chair. It’s my turn now, as Mrs Hamton says,” and he took another glimpse at the glass. “There, I’m ready. Oh, I say, I do look a wretch!”
Under the care of the good-natured old housekeeper during the next two days a great deal of the swelling went down; but after the old lady’s report, and visits from the Doctor himself, they were both still treated as infirmary patients, and relieved from lessons till such time as they should be presentable amongst their fellows.
But on the third day the confinement was growing irksome in the extreme; and the Doctor, after his daily visit, gave Singh permission to come down into the grounds if he liked. But the boy did not like. A glance at his companion in adversity revealed a disappointed look, and as soon as the Doctor was gone he picked up one of the books with which they were well supplied.
“Well,” said Glyn gloomily, “why don’t you go down?”