Trevor finally got on to the doctor. He tried to speak as low as he could, not to disturb Ivor, who again seemed as near sleep as could be.
“Hallo, Harvey! Trevor speaking.... Yes, Gerald. I say, Harvey, I’ve got a young man here having pneumonia. I’d be glad of a little help....”
Dr. Harvey’s voice came from the other end: “But look here, Mrs. Gray has just rung up telling me to go round to a flat in Upper Brook Street where a young man has got influenza....”
“Influenza nothing,” Gerald snorted. “The chap’s here, I tell you. And on your way here you’d better book a suite at a nursing home, because I can’t have people having pneumonia all over my flat, there’s no facilities....”
He put up the receiver and turned to Ivor behind him. He could see, in the firelight, Ivor’s eyes painfully on him.
“You won’t die yet, Ivor,” he grinned at him—that jerky, pleasant, wise grin of Trevor’s! He sat beside the sick man, and passed a hand over the burning forehead.
“Wouldn’t mind,” Ivor whispered. And two big tears crawled out of the dark eyes and down the cheeks.
Gerald Trevor ate a macaroon, and soon Dr. Harvey came in.
“He’s got it bad,” he whispered to Trevor, having examined him. “Ought to have been in bed hours ago. But we can move him all right. Get your man to help. I rang up Mrs. Gray to say I was coming here. She’s coming on.”
“She can’t help him now,” said Trevor. “Come on.”