Roger looked at him with eyes that burned fiercely underneath his shaggy brows.
"I'm as right as you are—except for my confounded back," he answered. "I've not got a scratch on me. Only something must have struck me as the car overturned—and a bit of my spinal anatomy's gone phut."
"You mayn't be as badly injured as you think," ventured Barry. "Some other doctor might give you a different report."
"Oh, he's quite a shining light—the man who came down here. Spine's his job. And his examination was thorough enough. There's nothing can be done. My legs are useless—and I'm a strong, healthy man who may live to a ripe old age."
He turned his head on the pillow and Barry saw him drag the sheet between his teeth and bite on it. He crossed to the window, giving the man time to regain his self-command.
"Well, what about Nan?" Roger demanded at last harshly. "When's she coming?"
Barry faced round to the bed again.
"I came to talk to you about Nan," he replied with reluctance. "But—"
"Talk away, then!"
"Well, it's very difficult to say what I have to tell you. You see,
Trenby, this ghastly accident of yours makes a difference in—"