It seemed but a moment later that Poll opened her eyes, to find herself lying on a hard horse-hair sofa close to an open window. The chemist was bending over her, holding her wrist between his finger and thumb, and looking into her face with professional interest.
“Ah, that’s nice,” he said, “you are better now; you’ll do fine, if you’ll just lie still for a minute or two. Take a sip of this water. It was the close air of the shop. You are much too ill to be going about in this fashion, you know.”
Poll put her hand to her forehead, gave the chemist a dazed glance, saw Mrs Peters winding in the background, and struggled to her feet.
“Stay still, you are not fit to move yet,” repeated the chemist. “This woman—she is your friend, I suppose?—will look after you, while I go back to attend to my customers. I’m going to shut up shop in a moment, and then I shall return to you. I want to speak to you before you go.”
He left the little room, and Betsy Peters, who had been crying, came up to Poll. “My poor dear,” she said.
“I’m weak yet,” said Poll. “I suppose I fainted. I never did that sort of thing before.” Then she glanced down at the front of her dress, which was open and disarranged. “What did he do that for?” she asked in white anger.
“To let in the air. You was werry bad, Poll.”
“Then he found out—”
“He found out, my poor dear.”
“And you know it, Betsy Peters?”