"What is the matter, Dormy?" said mother.
Dormer was standing beside Sophy, looking very guilty, and rather white.
"Mamma," he said, "I was only drawing a chair out. It got so dreadfully cold where I was sitting, I really could not stay there," and he shivered slightly.
He had been sitting with his back to one of the locked-up doors. Phil, who was nearest, moved his hand slowly across the spot.
"You are fanciful, Dormy," he said, "there is really no draught whatever."
This did not satisfy mother.
"He must have got a chill, then," she said, and she went on to question the child as to what he had been doing all day, for, as I have said, he was still delicate.
But he persisted that he was quite well, and no longer cold.
"It wasn't exactly a draught," he said, "it was—oh! just icy, all of a sudden. I've felt it before—sitting in that chair."
Mother said no more, and Dormer went on with his tea, and when bed-time came he seemed just as usual, so that her anxiety faded. But she made thorough investigation as to the possibility of any draught coming up from the back stairs, with which this door communicated. None was to be discovered—the door fitted fairly well, and beside this, Hunter had tacked felt round the edges—furthermore, one of the thick heavy portières had been hung in front.