"No pain! That's fine!" said Peter with lying cheerfulness, for he knew that this deadness to sensation was the worst feature in the case. "That--left leg is rather badly bruised, it seems. I was a little afraid _that_ might be troubling you some." Silence. "Did Miss Nevin show you all your flowers? They 've just been pouring in all day every day. We could turn florists to-day without spending a penny for stock. Couldn't we, Larry, eh?" "Yes," said Varney laboriously. "We could." "Everybody has been so kind," continued Peter, desperately, "that upon my word it's hard to pick and choose. If I were asked to say who had really been kindest--let me see--yes, I'd name--Mrs. Carstairs. Flowers and something to eat, some little dainty or delicacy, twice a day. The fact is, old chap, to put it plainly, though I don't want to distress you, you know--she is blaming herself about this. Blaming herself greatly." "She oughtn't to do that," said Varney after a time. "Of course she ought n't to. Yet it's natural enough in a way. Of course, I'm blaming myself, too--like the mischief--I'd had so many warnings, you know. Little Hare is blaming himself. And Mr. Carstairs--poor old fellow! I'll show you his letters when--the light's a little better for reading. They're fine, honestly. Of course, he wanted to come on right away, but I wouldn't let him." Silence again. "So you see how many of us," continued Peter, nearing his awkward climax, "have been worried, _personally_, about this--trouble. And how much, well--how much--happiness is bound up in your getting well. And by the way--I declare I nearly forgot Miss Carstairs--I declare!" There was a long silence, which Peter resolved not to break. Through the shuttered window, the distant bells chimed faintly into the room. The sick man's stray arm moved restlessly on the coverlet, but otherwise he lay quite still. At length Varney said: "When did you see Miss Carstairs? She hasn't--been here--?" But poor Peter's errand was not so easy as that. He had no glad shaft of promise with which to pierce that deadly Nessus-coat of apathy. "She couldn't come here, old chap," said Peter, very gravely. "You hadn't heard, of course. Miss Carstairs is very ill." "Miss Carstairs is very ill," repeated Varney, not inquiringly, but like a child saying over a lesson. "Awfully ill," said Peter encouragingly. "It seems that she came home Thursday night a little after seven, looking very pale and badly, but insisting that there was nothing the matter. She sat upstairs with her mother until about eight, when somebody called her down to the telephone. Well, she didn't come back. So after a while Mrs. Carstairs sent down to find out why. The maid found her in the hall--in fact, on the floor, I believe. She had fainted, you know. Yes--that was it. Fainted dead away--poor little girl." After what seemed an eternity of waiting, Varney asked: "What was it--do you know? At the telephone?"