Mrs. Kipley bore down upon them, bustlingly energetic, a glass of whisky in one hand and a telegram in the other. Hemmy, red-eyed, lingered in the offing.
Young Carrington tossed off the whisky, tore open the envelope, and, calling to Trevanion, who was halfway down the steps, sped to him and spoke low and rapidly.
Trevanion nodded. Young Carrington, coming back, was smiling rather tremulously.
“Not a thing, thanks,” he said, to Mrs. Kipley’s offer of assistance. “All I need is a bath and a rest. In the morning I shall be quite—myself.”
He laughed an odd, gay little laugh.
“You don’t feel any bone ache?” said Mrs. Kipley, anxiously, as he went up the stairs.
Young Carrington looked down gleefully.
“I feel—relieved,” he said.
“I don’t wonder,” said Mrs. Kipley, to Hemmy, who was altering a determination to enter a convent into a desire to be a trained nurse.
But Mrs. Kipley and young Carrington were not thinking of the same predicament.