"Walk up," said Vicary, sternly, and marched him out of the room. "Right half face! Quick march! Go on, you conquering hero, and good luck attend you."
Warrington did not answer, but breathed stertorously and fingered the balustrade.
"Up you go!" said Vicary. "There's no retreat. She's waiting for you."
"I—I wish you could come too," said Warrington in a loud, hoarse whisper.
"HE FLEW UPSTAIRS AS FAST AS HIS WOUND WOULD ALLOW HIM."
Vicary grinned, shaking with internal laughter. Warrington glared at him, groaned, and went slowly upstairs, where the man stood patiently waiting to announce him.
Vicary heard him say breathlessly, "Wait a minute"; but the man preferred not to hear him, and opened the door with a most portentous "Lieutenant Beverley Warrington."
Vicary waited in the library. He smoked one cigarette, and another, and another. He tried to read, but gave it up. He tried to laugh at the scene in which he had just taken part, but gave that up too. After all, he was in no laughing mood where Warrington's happiness was concerned.
And at last, when the hands of the clock showed three-quarters of an hour gone, Warrington's voice from upstairs called hoarsely, "Vicary!"