In a blue flannel gown, with a rug over his feet, he was lying on a couch lengthened artificially by chairs; the arm he reached out issued many inches from its sleeve, and showed the corded veins of the wrist. Christian, settling his pillows, looked anxiously into his eyes.
“I'm not quite the thing, Chris,” said Mr. Treffry. “Somehow, not quite the thing. I'll come back with you to-morrow.”
“Let me send for Dr. Dawney, Uncle?”
“No—no! Plenty of him when I get home. Very good young fellow, as doctors go, but I can't stand his puddin's—slops and puddin's, and all that trumpery medicine on the top. Send me Dominique, my dear—I'll put myself to rights a bit!” He fingered his unshaven cheek, and clutched the gown together on his chest. “Got this from the landlord. When you come back we'll have a little talk!”
He was asleep when she came into the room an hour later. Watching his uneasy breathing, she wondered what it was that he was going to say.
He looked ill! And suddenly she realised that her thoughts were not of him.... When she was little he would take her on his back; he had built cocked hats for her and paper boats; had taught her to ride; slid her between his knees; given her things without number; and taken his payment in kisses. And now he was ill, and she was not thinking of him! He had been all that was most dear to her, yet before her eyes would only come the vision of another.
Mr. Treffry woke suddenly. “Not been asleep, have I? The beds here are infernal hard.”
“Uncle Nic, won't you give me news of him?”
Mr. Treffry looked at her, and Christian could not bear that look.
“He's safe into Italy; they aren't very keen after him, it's so long ago; I squared 'em pretty easily. Now, look here, Chris!”