Mercy stood before him with a glass in her hand.
"Is it good for him, I wonder?" she said. "Oh, where is Mr. Christian?"
Paul Ritson saw the glass, clutched at it with both hands, then smiled a poor, weak smile, as if to atone for his violence, and drank every drop.
"Well, well!—so hot—and dizzy—and cold!" he muttered, incoherently.
Then he relapsed into silence. After a moment, the driver, who was supporting him at the back, looked over at his face. The eyes were closed, and the lips were hanging.
"He's gone off unconscious," said the flyman. "Ain't ye got a bed handy?"
At that moment Mrs. Drayton came hastily down-stairs, in a fever of agitation.
"You've got to get him up to his room," she said, between gusts of breath.
"That's a job for two men, ain't it, missis?" said the driver.
Mercy had loosened Paul's collar, and with a nervous hand she was bathing his burning forehead.