Mrs. Britling helped him pack a bag, and came with him to the station in
order to drive the car back to the Dower House; for the gardener's boy
who had hitherto attended to these small duties had now gone off as an
unskilled labourer to some munition works at Chelmsford. Mr. Britling
sat in the slow train that carried him across country to the junction
for Filmington, and failed altogether to realise what had happened to
the old lady. He had an absurd feeling that it was characteristic of her
to intervene in affairs in this manner. She had always been so tough and
unbent an old lady that until he saw her he could not imagine her as
being really seriously and pitifully hurt....

But he found her in the hospital very much hurt indeed. She had been
smashed in some complicated manner that left the upper part of her body
intact, and lying slantingly upon pillows. Over the horror of bandaged
broken limbs and tormented flesh below sheets and a counterpane were
drawn. Morphia had been injected, he understood, to save her from pain,
but presently it might be necessary for her to suffer. She lay up in her
bed with an effect of being enthroned, very white and still, her strong
profile with its big nose and her straggling hair and a certain dignity
gave her the appearance of some very important, very old man, of an aged
pope for instance, rather than of an old woman. She had made no remark
after they had set her and dressed her and put her to bed except "send
for Hughie Britling, The Dower House, Matching's Easy. He is the best of
the bunch." She had repeated the address and this commendation firmly
over and over again, in large print as it were, even after they had
assured her that a telegram had been despatched.

In the night, they said, she had talked of him.

He was not sure at first that she knew of his presence.