“Then I propose that we just go and leave ’em. What do you say to a pipe in the surgery?”
“And a cool draught of my own dispensing, eh?” said the doctor, with his eyes twinkling. “One moment, and we will.”
“But where’s Perowne?”
“Upset! Lying down on board the naga, and too ill to come. I brought her on to the women as soon as I could.”
He trotted across to his wife. “That’s right, little woman!” he said, squeezing Mrs Bolter’s arm. “You’ll be a better doctor now than I. She’s very weak and low and—” He whispered something in her ear.
Poor little Mrs Bolter turned up her face towards him with a look full of such horror, misery and contrition that he was startled; but setting it down to anxiety on Helen’s behalf he whispered to her that all would soon be well.
“Take her up to the spare room, dear,” he said, in a whisper. “You must not think of sending her home. You’ll do your best, eh?”
“Oh! yes, Henry,” she said, as she looked at him again so piteously that he forgot Grey’s presence, and bent down and kissed her.
“That’s my own little woman, I knew you would,” he said. “I don’t think you’ll want me; but if you do, I’m in the surgery. Well, little Grey, what do you want—news?”
Grey’s lips said “yes” without a sound.