“He's pretty bad, Westcott. An operation's out of the question I'm afraid. But if you'd like another opinion—”
“No thanks. I trust you and Hunt.” The doctor could feel the boy's body trembling beneath his touch.
“It's all right, Westcott. Don't be frightened. We'll do all mortals can. We'll know in the early morning how things are going to be. The child's got a splendid constitution.”
He was interrupted by the opening of the nursery door and, turning, the men saw Clare with the light of the passage at her back, standing in the doorway. Her cloak was trailing on the floor—around her her pink filmy dress hung like shadows from the light behind her. Her face was white, her eyes wide.
“What—?” she whispered in the voice of a frightened child.
Peter crossed the room, and took her with him into the passage, closing the door behind him.
She clung to him, looking up into his face.
“Stephen's very bad, dear. No, it's something internal—”
“And I went out to a party?” her voice was trembling, she was very near to tears. “But I was miserable, wretched all the time. I wanted to come back, I knew I oughtn't to have gone.... Oh Peter, will he die? Oh! poor little thing! Poor little thing!”
Even at that moment, Peter noticed, she spoke as though it were somebody else's baby.