"I've brought you a lot of messages from Old Place," he began. "They
really are most awfully miserable about you!"
"I'm glad the cat hasn't been killed after all," she said weakly.
She had at last seen the look of recoil on Dr. O'Farrell's face, and she
was now trimming her sails accordingly.
"That's very magnanimous of you." Radmore smiled. He was surprised, and a
little touched, too. "May I sit down?"
He drew up a chair, and then he touched the hand belonging to the
bandaged arm. "I do hope you are fairly free from pain?" he said
solicitously.
"It does hurt a good deal."
There was a pause; his hand was still lying protectingly over her hand.
She lay quite still--a vision of lovely Paris frocks, a Rolls-Royce
running smoothly by a deep blue sea, a long rope of pearls, flashed
before her inner consciousness. Then she was awakened from this dream of
bliss by Radmore's next words:--"My godson's going to write you a letter
of apology," he said.
And then, to her chagrin, he took his hand away; it was as though Timmy's
malign influence had fallen between them. His very tone changed; it was
no longer tender, solicitous--only kindly.
"Mr.
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