Marcia pressed his hand gratefully as her aunt came bustling in with her arms full of clothes.
‘Howard,’ she asked, ‘shall I have Granton pack your heavy flannels, or shall you want them on the steamer?’
Her husband attempted a shrug and found the bandages would not permit it.
‘I think perhaps I’d better leave them out. It’s June, of course; but I’ve known very cold crossings even in July.’
Copley turned on his side and wrenched his arm again.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! Katherine,’ he groaned, ‘pack them, throw them away, burn them, do anything you please.’
Mrs. Copley came to the bedside and bent over him anxiously. ‘What’s the matter, dear? Is your arm very painful? You don’t suppose,’ she added in sudden alarm, that the stiletto was poisoned, do you?’
‘Lord, no!’ he laughed. ‘Poisoned daggers went out two centuries ago—it’s a mere scratch, Katherine; don’t worry about it. Go on with your packing—I should hate to miss that first steamer.’
His wife patted the pillows and turned toward the door. ‘Marcia,’ she called over her shoulder, ‘go to bed, child. You will be absolutely worn out to-morrow—and don’t talk to your uncle any more. I’m afraid you will get him excited.’
Marcia bent over and lightly kissed him on the forehead. ‘Good night,’ she whispered. ‘I hope you will feel better in the morning,’ and she turned back to her own room.