A trace of surprise escaped him. He said curtly:
"You're thoughtful. Was it you who put on that poultice?"
Her tone was as distant as his.
"We did all we could before you came; I put on the poultice. Did I do right?"
"Quite right. I asked because of the way it was put on."
With that expression of approval he left her and returned to his mother. Mary, unable to complete her toilette, not knowing from minute to minute when she might be called, occupied herself in righting the disorder of the room. She had thrown on a loosely-fitting morning dress of cashmere, one of the first things that she had made after she was installed here. An instant; she had snatched to dip her face in water, but she had been able to do little to her hair, the coil of which still retained much of the scattered; softness of the night, and after Ellen came back from the chemist's she sent her upstairs for some; hairpins. She stood on the hearth, before the looking-glass, shaking the mass of hair about her shoulders, and then with uplifted arms winding it deftly on her head. The supple femininity of the attitude, so suggestive of recent rising, harmonised with the earliness of the sunshine that tinged the parlour; and when Kincaid reentered and found her so, he could not but be sensible of the impression, though he was indisposed to dwell upon it.
She looked round quickly:
"How is Mrs. Kincaid, doctor?"
"I'm very uneasy about her. I'm going back to the hospital now to arrange to stay here."
"What do you think has caused it?"