Even now, he was at a loss whether his recovery was more
owing to Mrs. Dent or to the nurse. Each had given to him a large
share of her vitality.
From a distance, he could follow Ethel's doings, could assure
himself that his presence was no apparent check upon her happiness.
Now it was the muffled whirr of the bell, followed by low voices
from the room beneath. Now it was the roll of the carriage, bearing
her away to dine or to dance, and leaving Weldon to lie and count
the minutes until she returned. Now it was her light footstep on the
stairs, or, but this was only at long intervals, her hushed voice in
the hallway outside his door. At first, he used to lie and hold his
breath, while he waited for her to open the door of his room. By
degrees, however, he ceased to expect her. And, as the expectation
died away, he chafed increasingly at the slowness of his recovery.
Anything to get out of that house! She treated him as he would have
scorned to treat an invalid dog who had taken refuge in his stable.
All this came slowly. For two endless weeks, Weldon lay unconscious.
For two more endless weeks, he raved in delirium. Happily, his nurse
was a discreet woman.
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