He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum without.
Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in them—and then the lids fell over them.
"I feel strangely weak—but—so—happy, Jack," she said. Her breath came more easily and she slept.
Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour, grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for another night's vigil.
"She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her. "She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?"
"I am afraid to say—it depends so much on what recuperative power she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful."
"What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again, I suppose?"
"Never." He spoke curtly, almost cruelly. Saidie burst into tears.
At that moment came a smart tap at the door.
"Mr. Bolingbroke, Miss," said a voice from without.
"He can't come up." Saidie sprang from her chair. But she was too late. The handle turned, and a tall, distinctly good-looking man walked in.
"Miss Blackhall—how unkind to deny me admittance. You must know how fearfully anxious I am. How is she?"
"There's the doctor—ask him."
The stranger turned eagerly.
"This is not serious, I trust. She was always delicate, but—it is wonderful how she pulls together when the worst is over."
For almost the first time in his life John Chetwynd was tongue-tied.
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