She nursed him all day, and grew angry
in a vain attempt to force him to eat. Towards night he tossed furiously
on the little bed in the little bedroom, complaining of fearful
headaches. She remained by his side most of the night. In the morning he
was easier. Neither of them mentioned the word "doctor." She spent the
day largely on the stairs. Once more towards night he grew worse, and
she remained most of the second night by his side.
In the sinister winter dawn Denry murmured in a feeble tone:
"Mother, you'd better send for him."
"Doctor?" she said. And secretly she thought that she _had_ better
send for the doctor, and that there must be after all some difference
between influenza and a cold.
"No," said Denry; "send for young Lawton."
"Young Lawton!" she exclaimed. "What do you want young Lawton to come
_here_ for?"
"I haven't made my will," Denry answered.
"Pooh!" she retorted.
Nevertheless she was the least bit in the world frightened. And she sent
for Dr Stirling, the aged Harrop's Scotch partner.
Dr Stirling, who was full-bodied and left little space for anybody else
in the tiny, shabby bedroom of the man with four thousand a year, gazed
at Mrs Machin, and he gazed also at Denry.
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