"Do you suppose it was one of the gipsies?"
"I am at a loss for any supposition on the point," he replied. "I am unconscious of having given offence to any person or persons."
"Do you think you are much injured?"
"There are worse misfortunes in hospitals than the injury to my foot. I believe it to be nothing but a common sprain, although it has disabled me. The pain——"
"That's great, I am sure."
"Pretty well. I should not like you to experience it."
That it was more than pretty well, I saw, for the drops were coursing down his face. The men soon came up with the garden-chair, and Mr. Chandos sent me on.
He was laid on the sofa in the oak-parlour. Hill examined the foot and bound it up, one of the grooms having been despatched for a medical man. He arrived after dinner—which was taken in a scrambling sort of manner—a Mr. Dickenson, from the village, who was left with Mr. Chandos.
At tea time, when I went in again, things looked comfortable. The surgeon had pronounced it to be but a sprain, and Mr. Chandos was on the sofa, quietly reading, a shaded lamp at his elbow. From his conversation with Hill, I gathered that the lady he had been inquiring after, Miss White, had taken a situation at a distance, and could not come to Chandos.
"We have had another applicant after the place, Mr. Harry," observed Hill who was settling the cushion under his foot. And she proceeded to tell him the particulars of Mrs. Penn's visit.