Alix, to hear no more, put her hands over her ears and turned and ran into the bedroom. She flung herself upon Dorothy and shook her by the shoulders, shook her till she sat up startled and awake.
Alix stammered, 'John—John. He's walking in his sleep ... out there.... He's crying—he's talking ... go and stop him.'
Dorothy, efficient and professional in a moment, sprang out of bed into her two waiting slippers, and ran into the balcony. Alix heard her, gentle, quiet, firm, soothing John, leading him back to bed.
Alix was most suddenly and violently sick.
When Dorothy came back, twenty minutes later, she was huddled under the bedclothes, exhausted, shuddering and cold.
'He's quiet now,' said Dorothy, taking off her slippers. 'Poor old boy. They often do it, you know. It's the nervous shock. I must listen at nights.... I say, don't tell him, Alix; he wouldn't like it. Specially to know he was crying. Poor old Johnny. Just the thing he'd never do, awake, however far gone he was. Nor talking like that; he was saying awful things.... Did you hear?'
'Yes,' said Alix, in a small, faint voice.
Dorothy looked at her curiously, and saw her grey pallor and shut eyes.
'Why, you're ill too: I believe Johnny's upset you.' She spoke with a kindly pity and contempt. 'Is that it, kiddie?'
'Don't know,' said Alix. 'No. Should think it was too many walnuts at dinner. Let's go to sleep now.'