Nina had laid a cool smooth hand across her forehead, pushing back the hair—a light caress, sensitive as an unasked question.
But there was no response, and presently the elder woman rose and went out along the landing, and Eileen heard her laughingly greeting Boots, who had arrived post-haste on news of Drina's plight.
"Don't be frightened; the little wretch carried tons of indigestible stuff to her room and sat up half the night eating it. Where's Philip?"
"I don't know. Here's a special delivery for him. I signed for it and brought it from the house. He'll be here from the Hook directly, I fancy. Where is Drina?"
"In bed. I'll take you up. Mind you, there'll be a scene, so nerve yourself."
They went upstairs together. Nina knocked, peeped in, then summoned Mr. Lansing.
"Oh, Boots, Boots!" groaned Drina, lifting her arms and encircling his neck, "I don't think I am ever going to get well—I don't believe it, no matter what they say. I am glad you have come; I wanted you—and I'm very, very sick. . . . Are you happy to be with me?"
Boots sat on the bedside, the feverish little head in his arms, and Nina was a trifle surprised to see how seriously he took it.
"Boots," she said, "you look as though your last hour had come. Are you letting that very bad child frighten you? Drina, dear, mother doesn't mean to be horrid, but you're too old to whine. . . . It's time for the medicine, too—"