"Feathers saved her," said Chris, and impetuously he began to pour out something of his present difficulties, of how impossible it was to bring Marie to London.
"I've got a sister—" young Atkins made the suggestion eagerly. "She lives close to Somerton, and she's a nurse, but she's not doing anything just now. I'll run down and explain to her. I've got a motor-bike. She'd love to have Mrs. Lawless, if you'd care for her to go."
Chris was only too glad of the suggestion.
"It's most awfully good of you," he said gratefully. "You see how impossible it is for me to bring her here?"
"Of course! Well, this will be all right, you see; I'll run down there straight away." He turned at the door in his impetuous fashion. "I say—" he said again, "Poor old Feathers! Isn't it awful."
298 Chris could not answer, and young Atkins went on blunderingly: "I say, is it true what they say in the papers, that when they found him—someone told me—both his legs were broken? It must have been when the car turned over . . . my God, what an awful thing! I can't imagine how he kept up as he did . . . oh, all right, I'm going."
He went off hurriedly, and Chris put his head down on his arms and cried like a child.
He blamed himself mercilessly, and forgave his friend everything, if indeed there had ever been anything to forgive. He felt that he had grown into an old man during those hours of agony last night when he waited outside the closed door of his wife's room.
She was living, but she cared nothing for him, and he could almost find it in his heart to envy Feathers who, although he was dead, had once known the happiness of her love.
He had stood beside his friend that morning, and held the hand he had refused, his heart almost breaking with grief and remorse.