“Take care!” cried the clergyman. “It is very tender.”
I looked up at him with a scowl, but said nothing.
“Shall I carry you into the drawingroom?” he said, with tender solicitude.
“No; I am better now, and George will give me his arm. Pray do not stay.”
She rose with difficulty, and, resting all her weight upon her left foot, leant upon me. In this manner she managed to limp into the drawing-room, and to place herself upon a couch. Her pallor still continued, and I felt sorry, for I hate to see a woman suffer. Santley, who had followed us, and was watching her with extraordinary sympathy, now bent softly over her.
“Are you still in pain?” he murmured.
“A little; but——”
“Shall I send Doctor Spruce over? I shall be passing the surgery on my way back. If he is not at home, I will procure some remedies, and bring them on myself.”
Here I interposed.
“Pray do not trouble yourself,” I said, with a sneer. “A sprained ankle is a trifle, and I can attend to it. Unless my wife is in need of religious ministration, you need not remain.”