Rossiter's pink, foolish face and crisp
little flaxen curls, Rossiter's bearded countenance with its honest,
concerned look all waltzing round and round in a dizzying whirl. He
made the usual vain clutches at unreal supports, and fainted into
Rossiter's arms.
The latter carried him with little effort into the cool library and
laid him down on a couch. Mrs. Rossiter followed, full of
exclamations, vain questions, and suggestions of inapplicable or
unsuitable remedies. Rossiter paid little heed to her, and proceeded
to remove David's collar and tie and open his shirt front in order
to place a hand over the heart. Suddenly he looked up and round on
his wife, and said with a peremptoriness which admitted of no
questioning: "Go and see that one of the spare bedrooms is got
ready, a fire lit, and so on. Get this done _quickly_, and meantime
leave him to me. I have got restoratives here close at hand."
Mrs. Rossiter awed into silence summoned the housemaid and
parlour-maid and hindered them as much as possible in the task of
getting a room ready.
Meantime the sub-conscious David sighed a great deal and presently
wept a great deal in convulsive sobs, and then opened his eyes and
saw the tourbillon of whirling elements settling down into
Rossiter's grave, handsome face--yes, but a gravity somehow
interpenetrated by love, a love not ashamed to show itself--bending
over him with great concern.
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