"Supposing he does think him better. Supposing he doesn't know. Supposing he's a bleating idiot…. I expect the dear old pater knows how he is a jolly sight better than anybody can tell him…. And you know you're worrying about him yourself. So's the mater. She's been crying."
"She's jealous of the nurse. That's what's the matter with her."
"Jealous? Tosh! That nurse is an idiot. She's sent his temperature up first thing."
"Horry, old thing, you must buck up. You mustn't let your nerve go like this."
"Nerve? Your nerve would go if you were me. I tell you, Barbara, I wouldn't care a hang about his being ill—I mean I shouldn't care so infernally if I'd been decent to him. … But you were right I was a cad, a swine. Laughing at him."
"So was I, Horry. I laughed at him. I'd give anything not to have."
"You didn't matter…."
He was silent a moment. Then he swung round, full to her. His face burned, his eyes flashed tears; he held his head up to stop them falling.
"Barbara—if he dies, I'll kill myself."
That evening Mr. Waddington's temperature went up another point. Ralph, calling about nine o'clock, found Barbara alone in the library, huddled in a corner of the sofa, with her pocket-handkerchief beside her, rolled in a tight, damp ball. She started as he came in.