Persistently, in the silence of the hot room, there rang through his brain the questions:  “Do I really care whether she stays or goes?—­do I love her?—­shall I ever marry her?” Questions that were immediately answered, it seemed, by the rise of a wave of desolate and desperate feeling.  He was maimed and ruined; life had broken under his feet.  What if also he were done forever with love and marriage?

There were still some traces in his veins of the sedative drug which had given him a few hours’ sleep during the night.  Under its influence a feverish dreaminess overtook him, alive with fancies and images.  Ferrier and Diana were among the phantoms that peopled the room.  He saw Ferrier come in, stoop over the newspaper on the floor, raise it, and walk toward the fire with it.  The figure stood with its back to him; then suddenly it turned, and Marsham saw the well-known face, intent, kindly, a little frowning, as though in thought, but showing no consciousness of his, Oliver’s, presence or plight.  He himself wished to speak, but was only aware of useless effort and some intangible hinderance.  Then Ferrier moved on toward a writing-table with drawers that stood beyond the fireplace.  He stooped, and touched a handle.  “No!” cried Oliver, violently—­“no!” He woke with shock and distress, his pulse racing.  But the feverish state began again, and dreams with it—­of the House of Commons, the election, the faces in the Hartingfield crowd.  Diana was among the crowd—­looking on—­vaguely beautiful and remote.  Yet as he perceived her a rush of cool air struck on his temples, he seemed to be walking down a garden, there was a scent of limes and roses.

“Oliver!” said his mother’s voice beside him—­“dear Oliver!”

He roused himself to find Lady Lucy bending over him.  The pale dismay in her face excited and irritated him.

He turned away from her.

“Is Nixon come?”

“Dearest, he has just arrived.  Will you see him at once?”

“Of course!” he said, angrily.  “Why doesn’t Richard do as he’s told?”

He raised himself into a sitting posture, while Lady Lucy went to the door.  The local doctor entered—­a stranger behind him.  Lady Lucy left her son and the great surgeon together.

* * * * *

Nearly an hour later, Mr. Nixon, waylaid by Lady Lucy, was doing his best to compromise, as doctors must, between consideration for the mother and truth as to the Son.  There was, he hoped, no irreparable injury.  But the case would be long, painful, trying to everybody concerned.  Owing to the mysterious nerve-sympathies of the body, the sight was already affected and would be more so.  Complete rest, certain mechanical applications, certain drugs—­he ran through his recommendations.

“Avoid morphia, I implore you,” he said, earnestly, “if you possibly can.  Here a man’s friends can be of great help to him.  Cheer him and distract him in every way you can.  I think we shall be able to keep the pain within bounds.”