He went without his lunch because he could not bear the battery of eyes which he knew would be upon him all the time. He sat up in his own room reading until Atkins, still pale and shaken, came knocking at the door.
Feathers said, "Come in," not very pleasantly, and the boy went across to him and held out an unsteady hand.
"I say, you're a ripping sport!" he said in heartfelt tones. "If she'd gone I should have jumped in and drowned myself; I swear I should."
"And a lot of good that would have done," Feathers said dryly. "For heaven's sake, chuck it, young 'un, and talk about something we can all enjoy."
But Atkins apparently could talk of nothing else, and he kept harping on the same subject until in desperation Feathers took him by the shoulders and put him outside.
Even then there was no peace, for almost directly Chris himself arrived.
"They tell me you saved her life," he said agitatedly. "I ought to have guessed! It's the kind of thing you would do. I can't—can't tell you how grateful I am. If anything had happened to her . . ."
Feathers chucked the book he was reading across the room with violence.
"Well, nothing has happened to her," he said crossly. "So, for the love of Mike, shut up!" He walked over to the window. "I suppose she is all right?" he asked casually.
"She's weak, of course, but the doctor says she'll be quite herself in a day or two." Chris hesitated. "She'd like to see you, Feathers."