No? A glass of sherry, then, and a biscuit at least . . ."
He ran to the door, called to his orderly to bring some glasses, and
came back rubbing his hands. "It's an ill wind, as they say . . ."
"We have come with the order about which we have corresponded."
"For that poor fellow Raoul?" The Commandant nodded gaily and smiled;
and Dorothea, who had been watching his face, felt the load dissolve
and roll off her heart, as a pile of snow slides from a bough in the
sunshine. "He is better, I am glad to report--out of bed and fairly
convalescent indeed. But I hope my message did not alarm you
needlessly. It was touch-and-go with him for twenty-four hours; still,
he was bettering when I wrote. And to bring you all this way, and in
such weather!"
"My sister and I," explained Endymion, "take a particular interest in
his case."
But the voluble officer was not so easily silenced.
"So, to be sure, I gathered." He bowed gallantly to Dorothea. "'O
woman! in our hours of ease, Uncertain, coy, and hard to please'--not,
of course, that I attribute any such foibles to Miss Westcote, but for
the sake of the conclusion."
"Can we see him?"
"Eh? Before luncheon? Oh, most assuredly, if you wish it. He has been
transferred to the Convalescents' Ward. We will step across at once."
He drew from his pocket a small master-key, attached by a steel chain
to his belt, and blew into the wards thoughtfully while he studied the
paper handed to him by Endymion.
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