“You order it?” he said slowly. “I didn’t think anybody could order Sir Piers Pelham.”
“And why not?”
“Oh, because—because I’m rich,” said the child, “and I”—he gazed round him in a puzzled way—“I’m great. I’ll be a very great man when I’m grown up. I was telling nurse about it. I was telling her that I’d have heaps of money. I shall have everything my own way. I’ll be a sort of king. The king can do no wrong. That’s a beautiful proverb, isn’t it? I’m going to have it illuminated and put over the mantelpiece. I’m the king and I can do no wrong, and I wish to get up, and I will. You can’t keep me in bed, nor can nurse.”
“You may be a great king, or autocrat, or whatever you like to call it,” said Tarbot, “but you have got to obey me now because I am your doctor. Nurse, I must speak to you. I will see you afterwards in the drawing-room, Mrs. Pelham.”
The doctor and the nurse left the room. The nurse was absent about five minutes. She came back looking quiet and calm. She went and stood by little Piers’s bed. The mother was at the other side.
“I think the doctor would like to speak to you, madam,” said the nurse.
Mrs. Pelham left the room. She went down-stairs. Tarbot was waiting for her, standing with his back to the mantelpiece. As soon as Mrs. Pelham came in he began to speak.
“I don’t like the condition of the child.”
She clasped her hands, and a look of terror came into her face.
“I have discovered that there is real cardiac mischief.”