On a wide bed, high-topped with its impending weight of carving, dark as a catafalque, Laurence lay tossing, his hands grasping at the coverlet, his head rolling on the pillow. His eyes were half-open and he was murmuring faint hurried words. Sitting beside him, touching his burning hands and forehead, bending over him, Mary could hear no word clearly, only an inarticulate murmur of distress. He did not notice her presence nor give any sign when she spoke to him, urgently called his name. His face was dully flushed, his black hair rumpled wildly, his eyes glassy under the half-shut lids. He tossed away from her, moaning heavily. A dark-greenish shade had been pinned over the gas-globe; in this light he looked ghastly.
The nurse came in and stood at the foot of the bed. After a few moments Mary got up and beckoned her to the window.
"How long has he been like this?"
"Since I came this morning—only a little more restless toward night."
"He looks terribly ill."
"The doctor ought to be here very soon," said the nurse non-committally.
Mary turned away, stopped a moment at the bedside, then went back into the study. Lavery was there, sunk in a deep leather chair, smoking. Mary turned to close the connecting door and he got up, holding his cigar in his fingers. She walked up to him, her face deathly pale, and clutched his arm.
"Laurence is going to die!... I want to telegraph for my father!"
"He isn't going to die!" cried Lavery angrily. "I didn't think you'd lose your head like this, first thing, or I wouldn't have gone for you."
But when he felt her hand shake, saw her whole body trembling, he softened somewhat. "Look here, you're too scared. Have you ever seen anybody very sick before?"