She rose, tottered towards him. “I don’t know, pater, I don’t know anything. . . .” He caught the panic in her voice, hardened to it. “Don’t be hysterical, Pat. It does you no good: and it may harm Peter. Now, tell me exactly what has happened, and why you telephoned.”
At the sound of his voice, nerve came back to her; and she told him of her suspicions, of their confirmation.
“He was asleep, you say?” asked Heron Baynet.
“Yes.”
“On his back, or propped up?”
“On his back.”
“Oh, you women!” Heron Baynet smiled at his daughter. “You know so much, and yet you know so little. If it had been as bad as you’ve imagined for the last half-hour, do you think he could have slept? Why, Pat, he’d have been bolt upright, breathing fifty to the minute. . . .”
She said, very quietly: “But supposing I hadn’t insisted on seeing him. Supposing that idiot of a sister. . . .”
A step sounded outside. Captain Territt came in; stiffened at sight of the civilian; was introduced; wilted at mention of the civilian’s name; answered the technical questions with the deference due to a consultant. Yes, the patient had bronchial pneumonia. At least, in Doctor Territt’s opinion, it was bronchial pneumonia. Perhaps Doctor Baynet would prefer to form his own opinion. . . .
The two members of the closest Labour Union in England passed out together, leaving Patricia again alone.