He turned, and stood looking in silence at the two figures bending over the little bed. Catherine had one arm under the child’s head, and was smoothing back the hair from Gwen’s forehead. The child’s eyes were closed, her face flushed. Tugler saw her turn restlessly from her mother’s arm, as though the least touch was feverishly resented.
“Don’t, don’t—”
“There, dear, there!”
The look in the mother’s eyes betrayed how sharply such an innocent repulse could wound.
“Come, Gwen, darling.”
“I should let her rest, dear.”
Murchison’s voice was peculiarly quiet. He was standing at the foot of the bed, bending forward a little over the bar, his eyes fixed on the face of the child.
Dr. Tugler moved softly from the window. His habitual bluster had disappeared completely. His full blue eyes looked dull and puzzled.
“Not much of a room—this,” he said, apologetically, touching Murchison’s elbow.
The father turned and looked at him with the slow and almost stupid stare of a man suffering from shock.