"He has? Thank the Lord!" came back in another joyful whisper. "But he must be awfully hurt, just the same. We can't know till the doctors come. Don't you suppose it must be time for them now?"
"I don't know. Who's with him?"
"His mother and that angel Jim. I never saw anybody like Jim Dent. He's the dearest fellow, so cool and cheerful, thinks of everything and everybody. No wonder Stephen adores him."
"Thank you, Clara," whispered the other woman. Clara hastily wiped her eyes. The hall was dim and her eyes had been thick with tears. She had been exchanging whispers with Isabel.
It didn't matter. She was glad of it. The mother of Jim Dent deserved recognition, if she had said her kitchen was hot in summer. Clara put out her arms. Isabel came into them. Clara's plump cheek touched Isabel's thin shoulder. Isabel's hand patted Clara's back. Jim Dent opened the door. Seeing the affair outside he closed it again and went to find something he wanted, by a different exit. His anxiety was still great, but a side issue like this one must not be upset.
But by the second exit he found somebody else in his path. All the beautiful colour shaken out of her cheeks, her dark eyes wide with alarm, her lips pressed tight together in her effort at self-control, young Syl's sister, Anne, caught at Jim Dent's capable, blue-serge arm. She said not a word, but he answered her as if she had spoken:
"He's opened his eyes, dear. That means a good deal, I'm sure. Keep cool."
"If I could only do something!"
"You can—what we're all doing."
"Oh, yes!" breathed little Anne. "O Jim!—do you think it helps—really?"