both away. "Number one," he said, with satisfaction. "Now for number two." He went off to his patient and spent a placid half-hour chatting with the day nurse on dancing in musical comedy. But it was hardly half an hour before the Archduchess tapped at the door.
Reggie opened it. "This way, if you please, madame." He led the way to his room. "I have something to say." She stood before him, fierce, defiant, and utterly wretched. "I can promise you that the Archduke will recover consciousness."
She caught at her breast. "He—he will live?" It was the most piteous cry he had ever heard.
"He will live, madame!"
She trembled, swayed, and fell. Reggie grasped at her, took her in his arms, and put her in a chair and waited frowning. . . . She panted a little and began to smile. Then faintly, softly, "No, no. No more now. Ah, dearest." It was in her own language. She opened heavy eyes. "What is it?"
"The Archduke has spoken, madame. He said—your name."
Then she began to cry and, holding out both hands to Reggie, "Let me go to him—please—please."
"Not now. Not yet. He must have no emotions. You will go to your room and sleep."
"You—you are a boy." She laughed through her tears, and thrust her hands into Reggie's.
