It was as though the master of the house had returned, when the poet entered. The under-porter hurried out of his box, Prince had the coat and opera hat whisked away in a moment. In a moment more, like some trick of the theatre and surrounded by satellites, Lothian was mounting the stairs towards his bedroom.
They put him in an arm-chair—these eager servitors! The electric lights in the comfortable bed-room were all switched on. The servant who loved him, not for his generosity, but for himself, vied with the young gentleman who loved him for somewhat different reasons.
Both of them had been dominated by this personality for so long, that there was no sorrow nor pity in their minds. The faithful man of the people who had served gentlemen so long that any other life would have been impossible to him, the boy of position, united in their efforts of resuscitation.
The Master's mind must be called back! The Master's body must be succoured and provided for.
The two were there to do it, and it seemed quite an ordinary and natural thing.
"You take off his boots, Prince, and I'll manage his collar."
"Yes, sir."
"Managed it?"
"A little difficulty with the left boot, sir. The instep is a trifle swelled."
"Good heavens! I do hope he's not going to have another attack of gout!"