It was six o’clock before he accomplished his last commission and drove back to Ryder Street. On reaching the Cromwell Road, he was informed that Ivy’s mother was at the house in Norfolk; he hurried to the Law Courts and waited for the judge, who wasted half-an-hour before deciding to do nothing. Then he laid siege to Eaton Place, pursued Lady Maitland round London by telephone and eventually intercepted her between two committees in Westminster. She wasted only twenty minutes in a succession of agitated questions; and by that time Eric had made his story polished and convincing, so that she accepted the doctor’s ban without protest, only insisting that she was to be fed with morning and evening bulletins. The nurse had by this time taken charge; Gaisford had left and returned; Ivy was in as satisfactory a state as could be expected.
“I suppose nothing will induce you to let me see her?,” said Eric.
The doctor shrugged his shoulders and smiled grimly:
“Yes, if you won’t excite her. We’ve carried her into your spare room, away from your infernal telephone contraptions. Don’t try to talk to her.”
Eric went in and returned swiftly, with a scared face.
“I say, she’s in horrible pain,” he exclaimed.
“I know. I sent you in to cure you of any desire to go back. The best thing you can do is to keep out of the way and find some work to do; otherwise you’ll simply fret your nerves to ribbons. It’ll be much worse than this when you’re married, if that’s any consolation. Go and get some dinner and find some one to take to a music-hall.”
Eric knew that the doctor was trying to keep his emotional temperature low, but he winced involuntarily at his inhuman detachment.
“While she’s like that? Thank you, Gaisford,” he answered shortly.
“I’m trying to make a philosopher of you,” the doctor explained.