She tried to give him one of her happy smiles.
“You see—I have to run to you—because I am in trouble.”
The pathetic simplicity of her manner touched him.
“My dear Kate,” and his voice lost its usual snappishness, “how can I serve you—as a friend? It is not usual to see you worried.”
“You know James has been overworked.”
“Have I not lectured the rogue on a dozen different occasions?”
“Yes, yes, I know; and he was ill at Marley Down on Sunday, in the little place where I had hoped to give him rest. Oh, Porteus, how brutal the responsibilities of life can be at times! Inglis, our assistant, sent for him to attend a serious case. James’s sense of duty dragged him away from Marley. He went, braved a critical operation, and—”
She faltered, her face aglow, as though the very loyalty of her love made the confession partake of treachery. The wrinkles about Porteus Carmagee’s eyes seemed to grow more marked.
“And made a mess of it, Kate, eh?”
His brusquerie passed with her as a characteristic method of concealing emotion.