but she saw to it that no man missed his mug of steaming tea and supply of sandwiches and cake, and she exerted all the affability and charm of which she held the secret, in talking to the soldiers. The packets of cigarettes with which she was always laden added to her popularity, and when the train steamed slowly out of the station again the men raised a cheer.
"Three cheers for Miss Vivian!"
Her name had passed like lightning from one carriage to another.
"Hooray-ay."
They hung out of the window, waving their caps, and Char stood at the end of the platform, heedless of the rain now pouring down on her, and waved until the train was out of sight.
"Start washing up and packing the things at once."
"Yes, Miss Vivian."
The waiting-room was already seething and full of steam from the zinc pans of boiling water into which mugs and knives were being flung with deafening clatter.
"Here, chuck me a dry cloth! Mine's wringing."
"Oh, look out, dear! You're splashing your uniform like anything."
"I've got such a lot of work waiting for me when I get back to the office."
"Poor fellows, they did look bad! Did you see one chap, quite a young fellow, too, with his poor leg and all...."
Char turned away impatiently.
Thank Heaven, there was nothing further for her to do at the station.
The work at the office would be heavy enough, but at least she had not to stand amongst that noisy crew of workers round the big packing-cases and wash-tubs, each one screaming so as to make herself heard above the splashing water and clattered crockery.
It did not occur to her, as the car took her swiftly back to the office, also to be thankful that neither had she to walk back, as they had, in the streaming rain and cold of the dark evening.
She swallowed one of Miss Bruce's quinine tablets with her hot tea, but was unable to eat anything, and sat over her letters with throbbing temples and a temperature that she felt to be rising rapidly. She pored over each simplest sentence again and again, unable to attach any meaning to the words dancing before her aching, swimming eyes.
Soon after half-past six Grace Jones came back from the station, her pale face glowing from the wind and rain, unabated vigour in her movements.
"Have you only just got back?"
"I had some tea downstairs. I've been in about ten minutes."
Char raised her eyebrows with an expression that would have caused Miss Delmege ostentatiously to refrain from tea every day for a week, had it been directed towards herself.
But Miss Jones only said tranquilly: "Is there anything that I can do for you?"
"No. Yes. You can answer that telephone."
The bell had suddenly sounded, and Char felt no strength to exert the swollen, aching muscles of her throat.
Grace took up the receiver.
"They want to speak to you from Plessing."
Char checked an exclamation of impatience. If only Brucey wouldn't fuss so! She might know by this time that it was of no use.
"Please say that I can't take a private call from here. Ask if it's on business."
She waited impatiently.
"It's not on business—it's important. Lady Vivian is speaking."
Char almost snatched the receiver.
"What is it?" she asked curtly.
"Is that you, Char?" came over the wires.
"Miss Vivian speaking," returned Char officially, for the benefit of Miss Jones.
"Your father is ill. He has had a very slight stroke, and I want you to bring out Dr. Prince in the car."
"How bad is he? Have you had any one?"
"Yes. Dr. Clark came up from the village, but he suggested sending for Dr. Prince at once. He is unconscious, of course, and there isn't any immediate danger; he may get over it altogether, but—this is the first minute I've had—I am going back to him now. Come as soon as you can, Char, and bring the doctor. I can't get him on the telephone, but you must get hold of him somehow."
"Yes—yes. Is there anything else?"
"Nothing now, my dear. By great good luck John is here, and most helpful. He carried your father upstairs. Only don't delay, will you?"
"No. I'll come at once. Good-bye."
"Good-bye."
Char replaced the receiver, feeling dazed.
Involuntarily her first sensation was one of injury that any one should be more ill than she was herself, and able to excite so much stir.
The next moment she regained possession of herself.
"Miss Jones, ring up the garage and tell them to send my car round immediately. Sir Piers Vivian has been taken ill, and I am going out to Plessing at once. Tell them to hurry."
Grace obeyed, and Char began feverishly to make order amongst the pile of papers on her table.
"I'm leaving a lot undone," she muttered, "but I suppose I shall be here tomorrow morning. I must be."
Ten minutes later the car was at the door.
"Miss Jones, see that all these go tonight," Char rapidly instructed her secretary. "The letters I haven't been able to sign must be held over till tomorrow. By the way, didn't the—er—your Hostel Superintendent say that she wanted an appointment with me this evening?"
"Mrs. Bullivant? Yes. She was coming at eight."
"Then, please tell her what's happened, and say that I will arrange to see her some time tomorrow. That's all, I think."
"I hope Sir Piers Vivian will be better by the time you get back."
"I hope so. Thank you. Good-night, Miss Jones."
Char hurried downstairs, hoping that the tone of her voice had put Miss Jones into her proper place again. She did not encourage personal amenities between herself and her staff.
It was nearly nine o'clock before she got to Plessing. It had taken a long while to find Dr. Prince, and the chauffeur drove with maddening precautions through a thick wet mist along the sodden, slippery roads.
"A broken leg or two would delay us worse," said the doctor philosophically.
He was a bearded, hard-working man, with a reputation that extended beyond the Midlands.
After finding out from Char that she knew little or nothing of her father's state of health, he asked her with a quick look:
