How did he get there? He had no
idea. More movements of his feet, and then unexpected warmth. He
looked around him. There were voices. He listened. The one voice?
The one face bending over his, her eyes wet with tears, her whispers
an incoherent stream of broken words. Then the warmth seemed to
come back to his veins. He sat up and found himself on the couch
in the library, the rain dripping from him in little pools, and he
knew that he had succeeded. He had not fainted.
"I am all right," he repeated. "What a mess I am making!"
The voices around him were still a little tangled, but the hand
which held a steaming tumbler to his lips was Philippa's.
"Drink it all," she begged.
He felt the tears come into his eyes, felt the warm blood streaming
through his body, felt a little wet patch at the back of the calf
of his leg, and the hand which set down the empty tumbler was almost
steady.
"There's a hot bath ready," Philippa told him; "some dry clothes,
and a bedroom with a fire in. Do let Mills show you the way."
He rose at once, prepared to follow her. His feet were not quite
so steady as he would have wished, but he made a very presentable
show. Mills, with a little apology, held out his arm. Philippa
walked by his other side.
"As soon as you have finished your bath and got into some dry
clothes," Philippa whispered, "please ring, or send Mills to let us
know.
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