“I hope you have not given any one the trouble of coming here because you thought I wanted to see them?”
“Certainly not,” retorted the surgeon. “The reason I invited ‘them’ was because I thought you didn’t want to see them, of course. I’m glad you have modesty enough not to imagine that ‘they’ wanted to see you. Anyhow, you need only look as sick and sorry as you do now, and they’ll never want to see you again. Now do, for the sake of my professional reputation, try to assume some faint resemblance to a smile, even if you feel it not!”
“Oh, shut up!” groaned the patient.
“Well, it’s not my fault if you don’t appreciate your blessings. Here, drink this, and I’ll give you ten minutes or so to practise an amiable expression in. Think you’re going to be photographed. ‘I know it’s difficult, but try to look pleasant,’ you know.”
The doctor had spoken with calculated guile, for it was only two or three minutes after leaving his patient that he returned, ushering Zoe up the verandah steps. To his great satisfaction, he saw Wylie’s face light up as she went forward, her eyes suspiciously bright, and shook hands with him.
“Now you may have a quarter of an hour,” he said; “but mind, no getting out of that chair. No experiments in walking by way of showing the Princess how much better you are—you understand? I don’t want testimonials of that sort.”
He ran down the steps, and Wylie and Zoe were left alone. He turned to her quickly.
“You are in mourning. Who is it? not your brother?”
“Oh no, not Maurice. But it is—dear little Con.”
“Not really? Poor little chap! I’m awfully sorry. How was it? Did he get hurt?”