Kitty lay on a couch. Her face was not like a human being's face. Pollock, very white, sponged her brow with cold water.
"There, dear," he kept saying, "O God, O God, O God," those words, over and over again.
Roger ran to the bedroom for pillows. There was a fire in the kitchen. He poked it up, and put water to boil.
"Where's her hot-water bottle?" he called. Not getting any answer he looked for it in one of the beds, which had not yet been made up. He filled the bottle and made up the bed. "Now, Charles," he said, "we must get her into bed. I wish your girl would bring the doctor."
Charles looked at him stupidly. "I believe she's dying, Roger," he answered. "O God, I believe she's dying. I've never seen any one like this. She used to be so pretty, Roger, before all this happened."
"Dying? Nonsense!" said Roger. He turned to the patient. "Kitty," he said, "we're going to put you to bed. Lean on my arm."
The laughter stopped; but the limbs crazily made protest. He had never seen anything like it. It was as though the charming graceful woman had suddenly been filled by the spirit of a wild animal, which was knocking itself to pieces against the corners in the strange house.
"We shall have to carry her, Charles," he said.
"No, no," said Charles. "She's dying."
The doctor, coming in abruptly, took the battle out of his hands. "Come, come," he said. "Come, Mrs. Pollock. I was afraid that you were ill. You'll feel a lot better when you get to bed. I want you to rest."