“Oh, for God’s sake don’t dissect the poor man’s books when he may be lying dead upstairs!” And then she added irresistibly: “We think him great, and perhaps are better able to judge.”
Gita laughed. “I know you think you are! Sophisticated Reputation Factory. Quite a going concern. Still—not for a moment am I assuming that Eustace Bylant couldn’t have got on by himself. He has indisputable talent and intellect. But not genius.”
“He’s a great psychologist.”
Gita’s lips twisted. “His psychology has a few holes in it. I’m not as incapable of judging as you think. And at least I think for myself.”
This unseemly quarrel was interrupted by the entrance of Dr. Pelham. Elsie sprang to her feet.
“Is he——”
“All right for the present. But his shoulder is badly shattered. I’ve given him an opiate and he’ll sleep for several hours. I’ll be over in the morning and bring a second nurse.”
Gita had risen also. “Come over to the dining-room,” she said. “I’ve told Topper to make coffee and sandwiches.”
Then she saw that he was staring at her—that dress—her powdered hair—why on earth hadn’t she had her wits about her and changed before they came? “You’ll excuse me,” she muttered. “I’m terribly bowled over. Topper will look after you—I can’t thank you enough——” And she fairly ran out of the room and up the stair. They heard a door slam.
“What does it all mean?” asked Pelham. It was the first time he had thought of anything but his patient’s welfare, and he turned to Elsie with a puzzled frown, speculation dawning in his eyes.