"Ask if Nurse Brettan can come down, please! Say she is wanted in the waiting-room."
A brief pause ensued. The closing of the door left them alone. The father's imagination pursued the figures that had disappeared; Kincaid's was busy with the fact of the man's being an acquaintance of Mary's—the only acquaintance that had crossed his path. Surprise suggested his opening remark:
"You're a visitor here, you say? Your little son's sickness has come at an unfortunate time for you."
"It has—yes, very. I'm at the theatre—and my apartments are none too good."
He mentioned the address; the doctor made some formal inquiries. Carew asked how often he would be permitted to see the boy; and when this was arranged, silence fell again.
It was broken in a few seconds. The sound of a footstep on the stairs was caught by them simultaneously. Simultaneously both men looked round. The footsteps were succeeded by the faint rustle of a skirt, and Nurse Brettan crossed the threshold. She started visibly—controlled herself, and acknowledged Carew's greeting by a slight bow.
Kincaid, in a manner, presented him to her—courteously, constrainedly.
"This gentleman has been waiting to see you. I'll wish you good-morning, sir."
Mary moved to the window, and stood there without speaking. In the print and linen costume of the house she recalled with increased force to Carew the time when he had seen her first.
"Archie has got diphtheria," he said; "he's just been taken upstairs."