He was instantly, tremendously sick, as an overeaten ogre might have been in an Eastern story. When he had finished vomiting, he heaved up his huge, shuddering bulk. She put her slight shoulder under the groping hand, and guided him. With this slight aid he reached his room. The couch stood drawn forward at an angle toward the fireplace. He staggered to it, let himself drop upon it, and said, in a groan:
"Drink!..."
He pointed to the night stand at his bedside. When she poured from the jug that stood there into the glass and brought it to him, he gulped the contents greedily.
"Barley water ... good for the throat!" he gasped, giving the glass back. She filled it again, and again he emptied it.
His sweat-dabbled face was regaining a more natural color. She went to the washstand, filled a small shaving basin with cold water from the hand jug, and brought it with a fine clean towel to his side. She dipped the towel in the water and laved his face and forehead. That he experienced relief and refreshment from this she saw by the placid air with which he submitted, leaning his head back against the pillowed sofa end, and closing his eyes.
She dried his face, and suddenly the great eyes opened. The voice of the Chancellor said:
"There.... That will do!"
From the passive victim he had suddenly reverted to the master; potent—authoritative....
"Go to bed, Mademoiselle de Bayard, and sleep," he told her. "I am comfortable ... I shall do well enough!"
She replaced the basin and towel in silence, bent her head to the figure sitting upright on the sofa, and moved noiselessly to the door. As she touched the broken handle, he said to her abruptly: