"I say—, Roland, you."
"That's all right. There is only one thing that matters. I'll go and interview all the people staying here and get them to move."
"And you'll charge me."
"For your two rooms, and your board, and for the two nurses."
"No, no,—that's nonsense."
"Well, it's my nonsense. I like to do a thing thoroughly."
"But—my dear man—I'm rolling"
"That doesn't make any difference."
"But I can't let you shut up the whole place for three weeks"
"That is what I am going to do."
Scott's face twitched. He gave in, but he gave in with a passionate reservation. He was not going to quarrel with a beau geste,—but some day he would reply to it.
"I shan't forget this, old chap."
"My dear lad,—I want her to have every chance. I'm not going to sell you her chance. That's all. I'll turn the staff out into the annexe."
And that was what he did, and that evening the little lady rallied. The flame grew bigger, and Scott, walking up and down the carpeted corridor on his bare feet, or sitting in his chair, blessed the silence and felt that there was some healing virtue in it. No gusts of noise causing that little flame to waver. Old Ord had smiled at him. "To-morrow,—if she goes on rallying through the night."
About dusk, Sorrell, moving quietly across the empty lounge, saw a dim white face behind the glass of the hotel door. He moved to wave the intruder away, and recognized his son. Softly he unlocked and opened the door.
"What do you want, Kit?"
They spoke in whispers.
"How is—she?"
"Better. There is to be an operation."
Kit looked immensely solemn.
"An operation."
"Yes,—if she can bear it. And if—she can."
Christopher's eyes had a far away look.
"I think I'd like to be a doctor, pater."
"Would you?"
