"And mend things,—save people."
They gazed steadily into each other's eyes.
"It's good business, Kit,—an idea. Now, run along, old chap. Perhaps there will be good news to-morrow."
There was good news. The little lady had rallied re markably during the night and the very eminent surgeon who had been waiting on the threshold of her room for Nature's beckoning finger, went in and laid his succouring hands upon her. Scott, unable to keep still while the operation was in progress, wandered about the garden and in and out of Roland's room. When in the garden he was for ever looking up at the window of his wife's room, for one of the nurses had promised to wave a handkerchief if things seemed to be going well.
Roland, who was writing letters at his desk, found Scott leaning in at his window.
"She's waved!"
"I'm glad."
"Isn't it great?"
He resumed his pacings up and down the grass, and round the flower beds and under the vivid green fringes of the beeches and the chestnuts. He had a peculiar, gliding walk of his own, the movement of a dancer, gay and debonair, and Roland noticed that his characteristic movements had come back to him. He had trailed; now he went like a winged Mercury. This was the vivid Duncan of romance, the world's happy hero.
Roland watched and smiled.
"Sorrell ought to be satisfied," he thought. "Fortune has sent us her favourite children."
Moreover, Fortuna appeared to have taken her place beside the Pious Pelican poised on the oak beam. The eminent surgeon was returning to town; he had the satisfied air of a man who had dined well, and Duncan walked at his elbow as though he wished to embrace him.
"So—you think—sir—really?"
"We are not out of the wood yet, but everything has gone off most satisfactorily."
