“No doubt, no doubt,” said the Doctor; and he followed Dinah to the patient’s couch, and then drew up the blind and sat down by the pillow.
“Poor boy!” he said tenderly, as he took Clive’s hand and noted his hollow cheeks, large burning eyes, and the restless muttering he kept up. “No doubt about it, my dear. That injury is nothing. Bled a good deal, you say?”
“Terribly,” whispered Dinah, with a suppressed sob.
“Weakened him, but on the whole I should say it was favourable. This is all brain, my child. Overwork and anxiety. He must have had some mental shock. He must have known that his fathers pet scheme had failed before any one else had suspected the fact.”
Dinah looked at him piteously, as she felt that it was her doing, as much so as if her acts had been intentional instead of the work of others.
“Well, this will not do,” said the Doctor, replacing a tiny clinical thermometer in its case. “His head is far too hot, and I suppose you have no ice here. All this must come off.”
He pointed to the sufferer’s hair, and Dinah’s face contracted with horror.
“I can’t help it, my child. Come; we must save his life. Where are your scissors? It will be a task for you. Pooh! don’t look like that, my dear. It will all grow again.”
A few minutes later, with the tears slowly trickling down her cheeks, Dinah sat, carefully cutting off lock after lock, the Doctor looking on impatiently.
“There,” he cried at last, “you must let me do it, child. You are snipping little bits off as if they were more precious than gold. I tell you it must all come off at once. His head ought, to be shaved.—Scissors.”