"Quite so, Major," he murmured at length. "Er—quite so."
III
"Well, Sir Philip!" With her father and David Dawlish, Molly was waiting in the hall to hear the verdict. The ambulance had brought the unconscious man straight to the Master's house: and for the last quarter of an hour Sir Philip Westwood, the great surgeon, who by a fortunate turn of Fate was staying at an adjoining place, had been carrying out his examination. Now he glanced at the girl, and smiled gravely.
"There is every hope, Miss Gollanfield," he said, cheerfully.
With a little sob the girl buried her face against Sir Hubert's shoulder.
"As far as I can see," continued the doctor, "there is nothing broken: only very severe bruises and a bad concussion. In a week he should be walking again."
"Thank God!" whispered the girl, and Sir Philip patted her shoulder.
"A great man," he said, "and a great deed. I'll come over to-morrow and see him again."
He walked towards the front door, followed by Sir Hubert, and the girl turned her swimming eyes on David Dawlish.
"If he'd died, Uncle David," she said, brokenly, "I—I——"