“Now, dear, put your arm round William’s shoulder, and the other round Robert ...” “Would it not be better, Mrs. Haye, if between them they carried the chair and him on it?” “Stairs--narrow. Now lift him. That’s right. You can get along like that with them on each side, can’t you, John?” The woman was insufferable. “Yes, I’m all right. Good-night, Ruffles.” “I’ll come up and see you after dinner, dear.” William breathed discreetly but heavily, Robert full of energy. William’s shoulders were thin. “Mind, Master John, here’s the step into the library.” The nurse walked quickly behind. Mrs. Haye was a fool, and with no medical training, even if she were an honourable. Of course it was bad for the patient to walk upstairs. If she had had her way, they would never have put him in a room two storeys up, even if he had been in it since childhood. These ex-V.A.D.’s who gave themselves such airs. Nan was drowned in a wave of silent grief. To see him supported between Mr. William and Robert with white bandages over his head and him so weak and feeble and who would never see again, and the nurse who was not fit to look after a sick boy she was that cantankerous. She trailed away to a cup o’ tea in the kitchen. Mrs. Haye went round to her sitting-room through the door in the wall of the rose garden. No solution yet, nothing found, nothing arranged. Only one or two letters of condolence left to answer. And the nurse was terrible. Terrible. The idea of carrying him up those narrow stairs. There might have been a nasty accident if the woman had had her way. And he was in such a difficult state of mind. You could not say a word to him without his taking it wrong. Really, the only thing to do was to watch him and await developments. And in two or three years’ time they would marry him to some nice girl, they would look out for one. There was--well, perhaps. She went upstairs to dress for dinner.