CHAPTER XXII Two Hearts Drawing Nearer PRESSFORD was for several days hors de combat; and Ramsay could hardly yet be called convalescent; so the two wives had enough to do. Mrs. Brutt, deeply interested in the invalids, confident of her own infallibility, and always anxious to be "in" whatever might be going, begged permission to lend her help. She was so accustomed to sick folks; she would know exactly how to manage. "Not for worlds! Keep her off, at any cost!" growled the dismayed Pressford. Excuses were politely framed; but Mrs. Brutt, like many who are abnormally sure of themselves, proved impervious to hints. If she might not share in the actual nursing, she was bent on at least supplementing the efforts of her "dear young doctor." So she brought to the door, now a bottle of medicine for one patient, then a prescription for the other; now a plate of fruit, then a bunch of grapes; now a recipe for soup, then a pictorial newspaper. It was all most kindly meant; but her incessant comings and goings between hotel and châlet began to get upon people's nerves. Since the accident, she had taken fright about mountain-ascents, and had put her foot down flat, refusing consent for another attempt. No, she really couldn't! It was out of the question. If Doris were killed, what did they suppose would be thought of her? This seemed to be a question of greater importance in her eyes, than the actual tragedy. Go up the Glückhorn again! Certainly not! Doris must first get leave from her parents. Mrs. Brutt washed her hands of any such responsibility. It was a severe disappointment; for Doris had set her heart on a second and successful climb. She doubted if leave would be given, after the manner of letter which Mrs. Brutt was sure to write. And days were passing! Maurice's time of absence was nearly up, though it had been slightly extended. Thus far, in writing home, she had said very little about him,—vaguely dreading to have her present happiness cut short. She would have found it difficult to express by post her own half-defined feelings; and— whether consciously or half-unconsciously—she had not mentioned his name, but had alluded to him as the "English doctor in our hotel." This was distinctly not ingenuous. From the first she ought to have written more fully. And in her heart Doris knew it! Until the day of the Glückhorn ascent, she had not definitely allowed even to herself that the growing intimacy meant more than friendship. And, though now her eyes were being opened, still—Maurice had not spoken. After divers protestations from Mrs. Brutt, and the quashing of various schemes, Maurice begged to take Doris to the summit of the Petit Chamossaire. He was bent on having her once more to himself. Something had to be said before they parted; something that he had no wish to say—that he would thankfully have deferred saying. But conscience spoke loudly, and would not be denied.