“If you please,” answered that gentleman, weakly.
“Why,” continued Holly, in amazement, “then you aren’t an invalid, after all!” She had reached the door now and was looking down at him with bewilderment. Winthrop strove to turn his head toward her, gave up the effort and smiled strainedly at the marble Cupid, which had begun an erratic dance amongst the box and roses.
“Oh, no,” he replied in a whisper. “I’m not—an invalid—at all.”
Then he became suddenly very white and his head fell back over the side of the chair. Holly gave one look and, turning, flew like the wind up the broad stairway.
“Auntie!” she called. “Aunt India! Come quickly! He’s fainted!”
“Fainted? Who has fainted?” asked Miss India, from her doorway. “What are you saying, child?”
“Mr. Winthrop! He’s on the porch!” cried Holly, her own face almost as white as Winthrop’s.
“Mr. Winthrop! Here? Fainted? On the porch?” ejaculated Miss India, dismayedly. “Call Uncle Ran at once. I’ll get the ammonia. Tell Phœbe to bring some feathers. And get some water yourself, Holly.”