"Dr. Flower's very ill," she answered hurriedly. "He's had a stroke, or
something. I'm afraid it's very serious. I must go there at once."
All the small fret of the earlier afternoon, every thought and
association with which he had walked into this room just now had receded
so fast and far that re-connection, all in a moment, was not easy.
Charles, staring, seemed to say: "And who, if you please, is Dr.
Flower?" And then his mind replied with a flashing picture of Angela's
father, as he had last seen him, sitting forlorn among his cigar-stubs:
and at once he touched reality again.
"Ah! I'm sorry!" said he; and then: "You must let me go with you."
"Well--thank you--if you like."
And Mary, already moving away toward the bedrooms, added then, in a
colorless sort of way:--
"Who do you suppose telephoned me from there?"
"Who telephoned?--I don't know--"
She paused, half turned, looked back at him, hesitated, and then spoke
but a single word:--
"Donald."
Brief though the reply was, it was sufficient to plant Charles Garrott's
feet permanently upon the earth.
After an interval, with movements purely mechanical, he sought for his
watch. It was quarter past six. And he understood everything then.