" Mitchell, who was a stout, short man with
red cheeks, grey eyes and the air of an amiable Robin, was transformed now
into something sharp, alert, official.
Peter caught his arm--
"It's all right?... you don't think--?"
The man turned and looked at him with eyes so kind that Peter trembled.
"Look here, we've got to fight it, Westcott. I ought to have been called
hours ago. But keep your head and we'll pull the child through.... Better
go down and have something to eat. You'll need it."
Outside the door Peter faced a trembling Mrs. Kant.
"Look here, you lied just now. You never took the boy's temperature."
"Well, sir--"
"Did you or not?"
"Well, sir, Mrs. Westcott said there was no need. I'm sure I thought--"
"You leave the house now--at once. Go up and pack your things and clear
out. If I see you here in an hour's time the police shall turn you out."
The woman began to cry. Peter went downstairs. To his own surprise he found
that he could eat and drink. Of so fundamental an importance was young
Stephen in his life that the idea that he could ever lose him was of an
absurd and monstrous incredibility. No, of that there was no question--but
he was conscious nevertheless of the supreme urgency of the occasion.
That young Stephen had ever been delicate or in any way a weakling was
a monstrous suggestion.
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