"Oh, go on! Order me about! What's wrong with my boots?" The pale grin
was meant for sarcasm.

"They're rather heavy, sir, for a sick-room. Would you--would you
mind--taking them off?"

"Upon my word, you're a cool one!"

But there was something in the quiet self-possession of the woman which
coerced, while it exasperated him. He perceived plainly that she took him
for a madman to be managed. Yet, after glaring at her for a moment, he
sat down fuming, and removed his boots. She smiled.

"That'll do nicely, sir. Now if you don't mind coming _very_ quietly--"

She glided to the door of the drawing-room, opened it noiselessly and
beckoned to Melrose. He went in, and, against his will, he went on
tiptoe, and holding his breath.

Inside, he looked round the darkened room in angry amazement. It had been
wholly transformed. The open windows had been cleaned and curtained; the
oak floor shone as though it had been recently washed; there was a table
on which were medicine bottles and glasses, with a chair or two; while in
the centre of the room, carefully screened from light, was a white bed.
Upon it, a motionless form.

"Poor young fellow!" whispered the nurse, standing beside Melrose, her
kind face softening. "He has been conscious a little to-day--the doctor
is hopeful. But he has been very badly hurt."