"I won't see him. I won't see him if he comes! Look here, Glynn, it's my affair! Leave me alone, there's a good fellow! I can look after myself..." Stephen walked steadily to the door. "I'll take good care you don't. That's enough, Patrick, don't waste your strength! I'm going downstairs to telephone, and if Braithey's at home my car shall bring him round. It's waiting outside." He disappeared, and the storm burst over Pixie's head, but she bore it meekly, with a kind of stunned acceptance. _Everything_ seemed going wrong! The sunny harmony of the last ten days had suddenly changed to gloom. Pixie's thoughts made a lightning review of those different days. How perfectly, incredibly happy they had been! Until this moment she had not fully realised their perfection. "Ah, now, Pat, stop! Don't worry, boy! It's not my head! ... Wait till to-morrow and you'll be better than ever, and think of the trouble it'll give you to apologise. ... It's because we _care_!" "Wish to goodness you didn't then," cried the impenitent one. However he might wish to apologise to-morrow, he was in no mood to begin to-night, but the pain in his head was so acute that by sheer exhaustion he was forced into silence. Stephen did not return as had been expected after sending his telephone message. He preferred, it appeared, to go on the car, and personally bring back the doctor, and half an hour later the two men entered the room together. Then ensued the usual tapping and sounding, the enforced reiteration of "Ah-ah!" the feeling of the pulse, the ignominious presentation of the tongue. Pat went through the performance with the air of a martyr at the stake, sank back against the pillow when it was over, and hunched himself beneath the clothes. "That's right! That's right! Lie still and rest. We'll soon have you all right again. Have a little nap if you can, while I give Miss O'Shaughnessy my instructions in the er--er--" Doctor Braithey reminded himself in time that there _was_ no second sitting-room, and concluded grandiloquently--"in the hall!" They went out into the tiny passage, and Stephen and Pixie waited for the verdict. "Well! The right lung is touched. He has taken a chill. Now we must see what we can do to prevent it from going farther." He cast an inquiring glance at Pixie. "D'you know anything about poulticing?" "Yes, everything! I've helped my sister with her children, and I brought the things..." "That's well! Poultice him then, a fresh one every two hours. Here! You understand, in this position," he tapped himself in illustration. "I'll send in medicines, and we'll see how he is to-morrow morning. If he is no better you'll need help. We'll see about that when I call." A few more words and he was gone, racing down the long stairway, while Stephen lingered behind with an air of uncertainty. "I--suppose I can be of no use! Pat ought to be quiet, and I'm no hand at poulticing. You are sure you can manage alone?"