“Lord, man, what’s up!” cried Tarlyon. Ivor’s face was white, then green.
“That’s Virginia,” he said, with an effort. “Makes me feel sick.... Sorry.... For God’s sake shut that door, Tarlyon!”
Tarlyon closed the door softly. He was very quiet and concerned.
“I say—poor child!” he murmured; and he looked at Ivor puffing a cigarette with a green face. “I don’t wonder ... didn’t realise myself.”
“Some fool of a nurse must have left her door open for a second,” Ivor said angrily. He pointed vaguely to his mutilated shoulder. “I’ve had some, and so I know,” he tried to apologise for his weakness.
“I bet you do ...” Tarlyon softly agreed.
Ian Black came in soon.
“Hallo, Marlay! Ah, Lord Tarlyon!... Well, things are looking up now, quite all right.” His hands folded across his little port, he stared up at Ivor with round, surprised eyes. “I say, Marlay, you do look green! Want brandy?”
“The maid left this door open,” Ivor said darkly, “and you went one better by leaving your patient’s door open. What do you expect? And I don’t want brandy....”
“That must have been the nurse coming in and out with the things,” Ian Black gently explained, and turned to Tarlyon. “Worst part’s over, Lord Tarlyon. A few days now, and she’ll be out of pain. Fairly long convalescence, though....”