"Daisy," he exclaimed roughly, a moment later, "where the
deuce do you keep the note-paper?"
"I don't know if there is any, but the girl always has some." She spoke in a slow tone—insolent and fatigued.
A couple of bed-pillows were supporting her head, and a scarlet plush cloak, trimmed with white down, was covering her feet, as she lay curled on the sofa. The fire-light glinted on the metallic gold of her hair, which clashed with the black of her eyebrows; and the full, blue eyes, wide-set, contradicted the hard line of her vivid-red lips. She drummed her ringers on the sofa-edge, nervously.
"Never mind," said the bald man shortly, producing a note book from his breast-pocket, and tearing a leaf from it.
He wrote, and the other two stayed silent; the man returned to the hearthrug, lifting his coat-tails under his arms; the girl went on drumming the sofa-edge.
"There," sliding back his chair, and looking from the one to the other, evidently uncertain which of the two he should address. "Here is the prescription. Get it made up to-night, a table- spoonful at a time, in a wine-glassful of water at lunch-time, at dinner-time and before going to bed. Go on with the port wine twice a day, and (to the girl, deliberately and distinctly) you must keep quite quiet; avoid all sort of excitement—that is extremely important. Of course you must on no account go out at night. Go to bed early, take regular meals, and keep always warm."
"I say," broke in the girl, "tell us, it isn't bad—dangerous, I mean?"
"Dangerous! no, not if you do what I tell you."
He glanced at his watch, and rose, buttoning his coat.
"Good-evening," he said gravely.
At first she paid no heed; she was vacantly staring before her:
