“Why, no—of course not.” Helen was puzzled—and a little amused. How absurd Angela was—even when ill.
“How long will it take you?” Mrs. Hilary asked faintly.
“About two minutes.”
“That will do nicely,” the sick woman said with sudden cheerfulness. “Helen,” she cried fretfully as the other turned to go, “don’t hurry. You are not to hurry. Promise me you won’t hurry. It drives me crazy to have people hurry.”
Helen studied her friend for a moment, shook a puzzled and a now somewhat suspicious head, and went slowly out.
As the door closed the fainting one bounced up, searched the room rapidly with her sharp American eyes, rushed to the window, threw it open, and leaned out far over the sill.
“It’s all right, thank goodness, at last! Come in!” she called in a shrill whisper.
A brown hand clasped the sill in a moment. In another a khaki-clad man swung up into the room. Hugh had come home.
Not the spick and span serviceless subaltern of eight months ago, but a sergeant, battered and brown—his uniform worn and faded, his face thin and alert. Hugh Pryde’s face had never been that before.
“My, but I’ve had a time,” Angela Hilary told him.