The mother had a kinder voice. "I think the poor fellow was feeling ill from that fire."
"Well he might, too," said Rankin with all the bitterness that became the husband of elegant respectability.
"Go and make him lie down and be sure and keep his head lower than his feet," said Rankin's mother.
"I shouldn't be surprised if Ricky's head were considerably lower than his feet already," said Rankin. And when he said it the bosses of his face grew genial again as the old coarse junior journalistic humour possessed itself of the situation. And he went out sniggering and cursing by turns under his moustache.
Rankin's mother was right. Rickman was feeling very ill indeed. Without knowing how he got there he found himself lying on a bed in Rankin's dressing-room. Maddox and Rankin were with him. Maddox had taken off his boots and loosened his collar for him, and was now standing over him contemplating the effect.
"That's all very well," said Maddox, "but how the dickens am I to get him home? Especially as we don't know his address."
"Ask him."
"I'm afraid our Ricky-ticky's hardly in a state to give very reliable information."
"Sixty-five Howland Street," said Rickman faintly, and the two smiled.
"It was Torrington Square, but I forget the number."