“Not entirely.”
“Because that’s why I wanted to see you.” Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
“Why don’t you go to a hospital?”
“I don’t like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and I’m afraid they’d want to keep me.”
“What are you complaining of?” asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients’ room.
“Well, I’ve come out in a rash, and I can’t get rid of it.”
Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his forehead.
“Let me look at your throat?”
He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could. Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her; she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her.
“I’m afraid you’re very ill indeed,” he said.