"You don't look fit for such work," she exclaimed bitterly.
"I'm tired—that's all. I had a stiff day of it yesterday." He looked at her with a flash of boyish enthusiasm. "Hasn't any one told you?"
"No one has told me anything," she said. "People don't rush here with their latest gossip."
He flushed painfully.
"Oh, well, it isn't exactly gossip. It's about Boucicault."
"Boucicault?"
"Yes. You know Sir Gilbert Foster gave him up. Well, I found something Sir Gilbert didn't—a little spot on the brain not bigger than a pin's head. I operated yesterday, and I believe he'll get well. Isn't that a feather in my cap?"
He looked up, smiling into the sunlight, and waited for her to speak, until the silence became oppressive. Then he turned to her, drawn by an instinct which the next instant he knew was justified. He caught her by the arm, shaken from all his resolute self-possession by what her face revealed to him.
"Sigrid—what is it—you're ill—in pain——"
But she freed herself almost violently, steadying herself, forcing the blood back into her cheeks by a sheer effort of the will.