“I wish I could always have such hands to attend my injured men, madam,” said the doctor with formal politeness. “There, I must go at once. Good-bye, Eaton, my boy. You’ll soon be on your legs. Don’t spoil him, ladies; he is not bad. I leave him to you, Mrs Hallam.”
She followed the doctor to the door to ask him if he had any directions, received his orders, and then, with a bright, hopeful light in her eyes, she went softly back towards the dining-room. A smile began to glisten about her lips, like sunshine in winter, as she laid her hand upon the door. Then she looked round sharply, for in the midst of that dawning hope of safety for her child there was a heavy step, and the study-door opened.
She turned deadly pale, for it was Stephen Crellock’s step; and the words that came from the study were in her husband’s voice.
Volume Four—Chapter Twelve.
Mrs Otway on Love.
“Ah! Phil, Phil, Phil!” exclaimed Mrs Otway as she sat facing Eaton some mornings later, while he lay back in a Chinese cane chair, propped up by pillows. “Come, this will not do.”
He met her gaze firmly, and she went on.
“This makes five days that you have been here, tangling yourself more and more in the net. It’s time I took you by the ears and lugged you out.”