'Well?' enquired the major, confoundedly frightened.
'Pretty well, thank ye, but awfully fagged—up all night, and no use.'
'But how is he?' asked the major, with a dreadful qualm of dismay.
'Same as yesterday—no change—only a little bleeding last night—not arterial; venous you know—only venous.'
The major thought he spoke of the goddess, and though he did not well comprehend, said he was 'glad of it.'
'Think he'll do then?'
'He may—very unlikely though. A nasty case, as you can imagine.'
'He'll certainly not go, poor fellow, before four o'clock P.M. I dare say—eh?'
The major's soul was at the Dollington station, and was regulating poor
Lake's departure by 'Bradshaw's Guide.'
'Who knows? We expect Sir Francis this morning. Glad to have a share of the responsibility off my shoulders, I can tell you. Come in and have a chop, will you?'