“Possibly—through sympathy.”
Mitchell whistled. “Not to say affection, eh, doctor?” But Thorne was looking through the open door and failed to catch Mitchell’s suggestive wink. Mitchell moved briskly across the paved walk which led from the front door to the box-hedged garden in front of the house. “I’ll let you know what the third degree brings forth, doctor,” he called over his shoulder and hurried up the walk.
CHAPTER VIII
MANY INVENTIONS
DOROTHY DEANE laid aside the muffler she had been pretending to knit and stared intently at Millicent who lay stretched out on the lounge in Mrs. Porter’s pretty boudoir. Millicent was certainly asleep at last, but Dorothy waited several more minutes before rising cautiously and stretching her stiff muscles. It seemed hours since she had breakfasted. Taking care not to awaken the sleeper, Dorothy left the room and, after debating her future actions, she finally went in search of Murray. She found the footman polishing the silver service in the pantry.
“Miss Millicent wishes to know, Murray, if Mr. Wyndham has returned,” she said, letting the swing door close behind her.
“No, Miss Dorothy, not yet.” Murray dropped his chamois and straightened to an upright position, and a sudden sharp crick in his back resulting caused an involuntary groan to burst from him. Dorothy looked at him sympathetically.
“Why not use Sloane’s liniment?” she asked.
Murray shook his head and eyed her dismally. “I’ll just have to endure it, miss—if it isn’t rheumatism it’s something else.”
“Try a liver pill,” suggested Dorothy. She was aware of Murray’s peculiarities, and, if discussing medicine and illness would put him in a good humor, she was willing to go any length; Murray alone could supply her with certain information. Her suggestion, however, was unfortunate.
Murray favored her with a withering glance. “It’s not my liver that gives me an ache in every bone, it’s grippe,” he announced. “I’m wishing I had one of them ante-bellum cartridges.”