They went out into the tiny passage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for the verdict.
“Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther.”
He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie.
“D’you know anything about poulticing?”
“Yes, everything! I’ve helped my sister with her children, and I brought the things...”
“That’s well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here! You understand, in this position,” he tapped himself in illustration. “I’ll send in medicines, and we’ll see how he is to-morrow morning. If he is no better you’ll need help. We’ll see about that when I call.”
A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty.
“I—suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I’m no hand at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?”
Pixie nodded, struggling with a lump in her throat. Why wouldn’t he stay? Why did he so obviously not want to stay?
“I can. It will be all right. Moffatt will help me.”