"Ah, yes, I understand; you know the father."
It was the only reference that he had made to the father's asking for her, and she was sensible of inquiry in his tone. She nodded. And, alone together for the first time since her appointment, they stood looking at Carew's child.
She had no wish to speak. On him the situation imposed restraint. But to be with her thus had a charm, for all that. It was not to be uttered, not to be dwelt on, but, due in part to the prevailing silence of the house, there was an illusion of confidential intercourse that he had not felt with her here before.
While they looked, the boy gave a quick gasp. The tube had become clogged.
She started and threw out her hand towards the feathers. But Kincaid had picked one up already, favoured by his position.
"All right!" he said; "I'll free it."
He leant over the pillow, feather in hand. She watched him with eyes widening in terror, for she saw that his endeavours were futile and he could not free it.
The waxen placidity of the upturned face vanished as she watched. It regained the signs of life to struggle with the gripe of death—distorted in an instant, and distorted frightfully. The average woman would have wept aloud. The nurse, to all intents and purposes, preserved her calmness still.
It was Kincaid who gave the first token of despondence.
"The thing's blocked!" he exclaimed; "I can't clear it!"