He was not a bit anxious. In the interest of the talk with an old friend, the baby ailment had faded from his mind. I hated to bring the shadow to his face, but it had to be done.
“Billie has a high temperature, Mr Thorold. I think a doctor ought to see him.”
He looked shocked—incredulous.
“To-night! Wouldn’t to-morrow morning—?”
“I should advise you to see him to-night. It may be nothing but a feverish cold, but it is half the battle to start treatment in time. He is nearly 103.”
“I will telephone at once,” he said shortly, and marched out of the room.
The tenants of Heath Mansions do not, as a rule, run to the extravagance of possessing a private telephone, but down in the basement there is a species of ice cupboard, where, in surroundings of abject dreariness, we deposit our pence and shout messages, to the entertainment and enlightenment of the maids at “Well” windows. Mr Thorold was bound for this haunt, and the nice Mr Hallett and I sat down to entertain one another during his absence.
He is nice! I liked him the moment I saw him, and I went on liking him more and more. He is a big, powerfully-built man, but his face is thin, the fine moulding of the bones showing distinctly beneath their slight covering. The clean line of his jaw is a joy to behold; his eyes are dark and unusually deep-set—I would say “cavernous,” if I had not a particular dislike to the word. He has large, expressive hands, and a low-pitched, unusually deliberate way of talking.
“I hope the youngster is not going to develop anything serious!”
“I hope not. He is a dear little fellow. It is so sad to see a child ill.”