"I was wretched and selfish—he'd been queer all the afternoon, and I didn't notice it. I thought only of myself. Then he went out while I was asleep, and when he came back.... Oh, Nigel!... the doctor says he practically did for himself by going out then."
Nigel did not understand, but his mind made no effort to grasp at details.
"I'd better go at once," he said; "is he conscious?"
"Yes—but he says funny things sometimes."
She led the way upstairs, and the next minute they were in Leonard's room. It was a queer little room, extremely low, with bulging walls, sagging beams and an uneven floor. Len lay propped very high with pillows. His face was drawn and feverish—he was literally fighting for his breath, and his lips were blue.
He smiled when he saw Nigel.
"Hullo, old man!... good of you to come.... Lord!"—as he saw his clothes—"put me among the nuts."
"Don't talk," said his brother sharply.
"Your hair ..." panted Len.
"Shut up!"