“I did a Widal last night.” He added quickly, “that is a blood test. I am inclined to think your aunt has paratyphoid.”
John, impressed by the long word, said dismally:
“Then she’s a goner.”
“Oh, no. Paratyphoid is much less dangerous than typhoid. With ordinary care Mrs. Farleigh will recover. And, thank the Lord, I can trust you, Miss Farleigh, to see that she has more than ordinary care. Perhaps you will go to her now.”
Poor Agatha, thus torn from her lover, rose obediently, but with much ruffled plumage. Without a word she stalked into the cottage. Grimshaw said pleasantly:
“I’m sorry, but her aunt is alone.”
John answered bluntly but respectfully:
“Agatha’s upset after yesterday, and so am I.”
“After yesterday?” Grimshaw frowned, a frown that deepened as John continued emphatically:
“We expected you to stand by us, Mr. Grimshaw, and you didn’t. You know what lies behind things here; you must know that her ladyship hasn’t done her duty. And when I think of the trenches and the men in ’em it maddens me”—his voice trembled with excitement—“to see great ladies, like Lady Selina Chandos, downing those whom we are fighting, aye, and dying for. It makes me want to down her. And I will, by God!”