“Thank you,” he said gently. “And have one yourself, Eva.”
“My word, I’ll be glad of it,” she said. “It’s bitter cold, sittin’ out there.” She tip-toed off to the kitchen. Mr. Linton stood, hesitating, for a moment, and then went along the passage. A screen blocked Geoffrey’s doorway, and he peeped over it.
As he did so, Mrs. Hunt moved to the end of the bed. Geoffrey lay exactly as he had been on the night before; so utterly still that it was impossible to say whether he were alive or dead. Norah crouched beside him, her hand still against his face.
Then, very slowly, Geoffrey turned, and opened his eyes.
“Mother!” he said. “Mother, I’m so thirsty!”
Mrs. Hunt was beside him as his eyelids had lifted. The nurse, moving swiftly, handed her a little cup.
“Drink this, sweetheart.” The mother raised his head, and Geoffrey drank eagerly.
“That’s awful nice,” he said. “May I have some more?”
They gave him more, and put him back on the pillow. He looked at Norah, who knelt by him silently.
“Wake up, old Norah—it’s Reveille!” he said.