"Johnny—with—Cary," he said, slowly, and then something choked him.
He followed the post surgeon to the foot of the stairs and watched him until he disappeared. Then he went back to the dimly lighted, lonely dining-room and hesitated.
Suddenly a passionate cry rose in his throat, which he smothered.
He turned and flung himself on the lounge.
"Dear God," he moaned, "Dear God, be good to a little boy. I want to die! Quick!"
Upstairs the surgeon held the brim of the wine glass to the elder boy's white lips.
The enforced position had become an agony. Once, the surgeon saw the boy bite his under lip until a drop of blood appeared. He got a pillow; two—half a dozen and supported the boy's stiff back.
Three more hours dragged away, and then Cary stirred and woke. Great beads of perspiration stood out on her thin, drawn little face, but the fever had been broken in her sleep.
The boy's grasp suddenly relaxed and Cary sank back on the pillow.
The Lieutenant helped the boy to rise; ending, by picking him up in his arms and carrying him from the room.