“Mary,” said Hallett, in his quiet telling way, and with a look that made poor Mary his firm friend, “a good surgeon will tell you that he can do much, but that the recovery of a patient principally depends upon the nurse. I see that Mr Revitts is safe in that respect, and I shall be only too glad to hear of his getting well.”
Mary seemed to have a ball rising in her throat, for she could not speak, and this time she forgot to place her pocket handkerchief over her hand, as she caught that of the visitor and kissed it.
“You can be quite at rest, Antony,” Hallett said then. “Mr Ruddle said he was sorry to hear about your friend, and he should leave it to your good sense to come back to work as soon as you could. Mr Lister is away—ill.”
I fancied that he knit his brows as he spoke, but it may have been fancy. Then, turning to Linny, he said:
“I am glad you are set at liberty, Linny. Our mother is very unwell, shall we go now?”
Linny nodded her assent, and put on her hat and jacket; but before they went Mary found it necessary to go down on her knees again, and in a whisper to ask Linny’s pardon; all of which Hallett took as an expression of gratitude, and shook hands warmly as he left.
I went with him down to the door to say good-night, and as we parted I asked him not to think I was neglecting him, now he was in such trouble with his model.
“I do not, my dear boy; and I never shall think ill of you for being faithful to your friends. Good-night; the model is buried for the present. When you can come again, we’ll try once more to bring it back to life.”
I stood watching them as they went together beneath the street lamps, and I was glad to see Linny clinging trustingly to her brother’s arm.
“Poor Linny!” I thought to myself. “She’s very fond of somebody who behaves badly to her. I wonder who it can be.”