“No. The nurse said he must not excite himself by talking.”
He felt it was rather a lame excuse, the more so as he felt her dark eyes fixed almost indignantly upon his face.
“You see,” she said, lowering her gaze, and slightly blushing, “I feel that the accident was all my fault, and that is what makes me so anxious.”
“I will go at once, and let you know how he is,” he returned, and left the room for that purpose after she had rewarded him with a smile of gratitude.
Hilary was not asleep. He was tossing in bed, with flushed cheeks and bright eyes. Margaret, the nurse, was in the room, so he addressed his friend in an indignant torrent of broken French.
“What possesses you to let the servants suppose you and I have changed places?” he burst out, angrily. “I simply won’t stand their ‘my lording’ me much longer. I didn’t come here to be made a fool of.”
His noisy, excited manner was so unlike his usual easy-going and pleasant disposition that Lord Carthew, watching him, could not but conclude that he was feverish, especially as Hilary seemed desperately thirsty. After handing him some ice, which by the doctor’s orders had been placed by the bedside, Lord Carthew took a seat near, and tried to calm him, while Margaret discreetly left the room.
“Look here, Hilary,” he said, “I will confess the truth. I have fallen in love at last, and Kyro’s prediction is fulfilled. That is why I so particularly wish to remain Mr. Pritchard for a few hours longer.”
Hilary became suddenly quiet.
“It’s that crazy girl who took the jump, and whose obstinacy and foolhardiness brought me this nice little charge of gunshot in my shoulder, I suppose?” he said.