“What’s the matter, George?—are you ill?”
“Are you ill?” she repeated.
Then she groped for a match, and as soon as she saw his face, jumped out of bed.
No amount of bell-ringing would wake the Raw Girls, so Rose leaped upstairs to their attic, and beat on the door.
“Annie! Mabel! Get up and dress quickly, and go to Conster Manor and telephone for Dr. Mount. Your master’s ill.”
Sundry stampings announced the beginning of Annie’s and Mabel’s toilet, and Rose ran downstairs to her husband. She lit the lamp and propped him up in bed so that he could breathe more easily, thrusting her own pillows under his neck.
“Poor old man!—Are you better?” Her voice had a new tender quality—she drew her hand caressingly under his chin—“Poor old man!—I’ve sent for Dr. Mount.”
“Send for Luce.”
It was the first time he had spoken, and the words jerked out of him drily, without expression.
“All right, all right—but we want the doctor first. There, the girls are ready—hurry up, both of you, as fast as you can, and ask the butler, or whoever lets you in, to ’phone. It’s Vinehall 21—but they’re sure to know.”