Isaacson glanced at Doctor Hartley before he followed her.
"I--doesn't she look strange? Did you ever see such an alteration?" almost whispered the young man.
Isaacson did not answer, but stepped into the passage.
Mrs. Armine was a little way down it, walking on rather quickly. Suddenly she looked round. Light shone upon her from above, and showed her tense and worn face, her features oddly sharpened and pointed, wrinkles clustering about the corners of her eyes. She seemed, under the low roof, unnaturally tall in her flowing grey robe, and this evening in her height there seemed to Isaacson to be something forbidding and almost dreadful. She held up one hand, as if warning the two men to pause for a moment. Then she went on, and disappeared through the doorway that faced them beyond the two rows of bedrooms.
"We are to wait, it seems," Isaacson said, stopping in the passage. "The patient is up then?"
"He wasn't when I left," murmured Hartley.
"Did you say whether he was to be kept in bed?"
"Oh, no. I don't know that there was any reason against his getting up, except his weakness. He has never taken to his bed."
"No?"
Mrs. Armine reappeared, and beckoned to them to come on. They obeyed her, and came into the farther saloon. As soon as Isaacson passed through the doorway, he saw Nigel sitting up on the divan, with cushions behind him, near the left-hand doorway which gave on to the balcony. He had a hat on, as if he had just been out there, and a newspaper on his knees. The saloon was not well lit. Only one electric burner covered with a shade was turned on. With the aid of the cushions he was sitting up very straight, as if he had just made a strong effort and succeeded in bracing up his body. Mrs. Armine stood close to him. His eyes were turned towards the two doctors, and as Isaacson came up to him, he said in a colourless voice, which yet held a faintly querulous sound: "So you've come up again, Isaacson!"
"Yes."
"Very good of you. But I don't know why there should be all this fuss made about me. It's rather trying, you know. I believe it keeps me back."
Already Isaacson knew just what he had to face, what he had to contend with.
"I hate a fuss made about me," Nigel continued, "simply hate it. You must know that."
Isaacson, who had come up to him, extended his hand in greeting. But Nigel, whether he felt too weak to stretch out his hand, or for some other reason, did not appear to see it, and Isaacson at once dropped his hand, while he said: "I don't think there is any reason to make a fuss. But, being so near, I just rowed up to see how you were getting on after your sleep."