“You may depend on me, Miss Claude.”
“But you—is anything the matter? You look so ill.”
“I was a bit startled at master’s way of breathing, my dear. I thought he was going to be much worse.”
Claude went back into the drawing-room with Mary Dillon, neither of them noticing how wild and excited the servant grew, and a few minutes after they went slowly upstairs to Claude’s room.
Sarah Woodham softly retraced her steps to the study, tapped gently, and the door was opened by the doctor, who stood in the opening, book in hand.
“When will I have coffee? Oh, about four o’clock. I have only just had tea. Go and lie down somewhere within call—where I can find you.”
“I am not sleepy, sir.”
“No; but you may be by-and-by. Go and lie down on the sofa in the dining-room, I can easily find you there. Why, my good woman, you look ghastly.”
Sarah Woodham shrank away.
“Don’t disturb me till I ring. No: I’ll come for you. Sleep is the best thing for him.”