‘We are going into Rome the first thing to-morrow morning, and with only Granton to help there is no time to lose. We might as well begin while we are waiting for the doctor—he surely ought to be here by now,’ she added, her anxiety coming to the fore. ‘What do you suppose takes him so long? It’s been an hour since we sent.’
‘It’s four miles to Palestrina, Aunt Katherine. And you must remember it’s the middle of the night; the man was probably in bed and asleep. It will be another half hour at least before he can get here.’
‘Yes, I suppose so’—Mrs. Copley turned back to her packing—‘but I can’t help being worried! One suspects everybody after an experience like this. I am really feeling very nervous over your uncle’s arm; he makes light of it, but it may be more serious than any of us think. There’s always so much danger of lockjaw or blood-poisoning from a wound of that sort. I shall not feel satisfied about it until we can get into Rome and consult an American doctor.’
‘May I see him?’ Marcia asked, ‘or is he asleep?’
‘No, he’s awake; but you must not excite him.’
Marcia tapped lightly on Mr. Copley’s door and entered. He was propped up on pillows, his arm in a sling. She crossed over and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘I’m so sorry, Uncle Howard,’ she murmured.
‘Oh, it’s nothing to make a fuss over. I got off very easily.’
‘I don’t mean just your arm—I mean—everything.’
‘Ah,’ said Copley, and shut his eyes.
‘But, after all,’ she added, ‘it may be for the best. The Italians don’t understand what you are doing. I don’t believe two such different races can understand each other.’