at dinner—Prudence herself had seen to that—and her insulin had been the correct dosage. She took a brief look at her godmother and went swiftly to the telephone.
It was Dr ter Brons Huizinga who answered her, and she didn’t waste time with so much as a hello. “Mrs Wesley—she’s in a hyperglycaemic coma—deep, sighing breaths. I’m unable to rouse her at all…”
He cut her short. “I’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.”
Prudence went back to her godmother and then got out the insulin and syringe. “And if you’d go down to the front door and let the doctor in, Pretty?”
He was as good as his word; she was bending over Mrs Wesley when he came into the room.
He didn’t bother to greet her, his, “Well, what has she been eating?” was uttered in a voice which, while not accusing, certainly held no warmth.
“Her normal diet. I had all my meals with her and I’m certain of that.”
He was examining the unconscious figure on the bed. “Aunt Emma—dined in her bed?”
“Yes, of course. She only gets up for an hour or two in the afternoon.”
“She had a normal meal this evening?”
Prudence’s eyes opened wide. “Oh, my goodness! Aunt Beatrix went to sit with her…but that was after Pretty had taken the tray away. She had coffee…” She gave a small gasp. “Some friends called to see her today and left a large box of chocolates.” She stared as his expression changed. “You think…?”
“Let us assume that it’s the chocolates.”
He had nothing more to say, but set about the business of dealing with his patient, an intravenous saline drip, soluble insulin given intravenously, following this with an even larger dose by injection, a blood sugar test and specimens taken for testing. He worked quietly, quickly and calmly, talking only when it was necessary, taking it for granted that Prudence knew what she was doing, too.
It was early morning, two hours later, before Mrs Wesley showed signs of coming out of her coma. An hour later, after a small injection of insulin and glucose to counterbalance its effect, she was completely conscious. Prudence heaved a relieved sigh and longed for a cup of tea, just as Pretty poked her head round the door in a cautious manner and hissed, “Tea?”
It was Dr ter Brons Huizinga who answered her in a normal voice.
“A splendid idea, Pretty—and while you are getting it perhaps you, Prudence, would go and get a fruit drink for my aunt.”
There was a beautiful dawn breaking as she went down to the kitchen; she fetched the drink, gave it to a remarkably subdued patient and then accepted a cup of tea from the tray Pretty had fetched.
“I’m going back home,” observed the doctor. “I want two-hourly testing, and for the time being around thirty grams of carbohydrate four-hourly. I’ll be back after morning surgery, but please phone if you’re worried.”
Prudence looked at him with cold dislike, but said with deceptive meekness, “Very well, Doctor. Presumably you’ll arrange for someone to take over while I dress, eat breakfast and cast an eye over your other aunt?”
He said cordially, “Most certainly, since you feel you can’t cope.”
She said tartly, “Don’t be so unreasonable—of course I can cope, and you know it, but I doubt if you intend to take your surgery dressed as you are and with a bristly chin, too. So why should I spend the morning in a dressing-gown until you choose to do something about it?”
“It’s a charming garment; for my part, you have no need to dress.”
Her dark eyes flashed with temper; she said with chilling civility, “I suppose you can’t help being rude!”
He looked as if he was going to laugh, but all he said was, “If you could dress yourself and eat breakfast in half an hour, I’ll stay—but not a moment longer.”
Prudence sniffed, “How kind!” She cast a glance at Aunt Beatrix, lying with her eyes shut, looking more or less normal again, and whisked herself away.
Pretty, encountered on her way to her room, promised breakfast in ten minutes, and Prudence, with years of practice at dressing at speed in hospital, showered, donned a cotton top and a wide, flower-patterned skirt, tied her hair with a ribbon, and, since the ten minutes was up, left her face unmade-up before going down to the kitchen where the faithful Pretty was waiting with coffee and toast.
“Mevrouw’s cook may be out of the top drawer, but she hasn’t an idea how to cook a decent breakfast. All this bread and bits and pieces to put on it—give me bacon and eggs and a mushroom or two…”
Prudence, her teeth buried in her first slice of toast, agreed indistinctly. “When in Rome, do as Rome does,” she added, and helped herself to a slice of cheese.
“Madam will be all right now?” asked Pretty anxiously.
“I believe so—we caught her in time. I do hope she won’t do it again.”
She munched steadily for a few minutes, swallowed her coffee and got up. “I’ll take a quick peep at Aunt Emma. Will someone see to her breakfast?”
“Don’t you worry, miss, there’s help enough in this place. Has the doctor gone yet?”
“No, but he will the moment I get back to Aunt Beatrix.”
“Such a nice young man!” Pretty allowed her stern features to relax into a sentimental smile.
Prudence didn’t think this remark worth answering. She thanked her companion for her breakfast and flew upstairs, two minutes in hand.
Aunt Emma was still snoring peacefully; she skimmed along the corridor and went into Aunt Beatrix’s room.
“Ah, there you are.” Dr ter Brons Huizinga glanced at his watch, an observation which did nothing to improve her opinion of him, uttered as it was in a tone of pained patience.
“Half an hour exactly,” she pointed out. “If you’d give me your instructions…?”
He did so, watched by his patient, lying back on her pillows now, with the drip taken down, looking almost normal again. “Perhaps you would be good enough to fetch the notes I left by my aunt’s bed when I last visited her?”
He watched her with a slightly sardonic expression while she bit back the desire to tell him he could fetch them for himself on his way downstairs. With a slightly heightened colour, she went out of the room and Aunt Beatrix remarked from her bed, “You don’t like each other?” She sounded so disappointed.
Haso was strolling about the room, his hands in his pockets. “My dear Aunt—given the fact that we’ve both been out of our beds since about one o’clock this morning, and are in consequence a trifle edgy, I hardly think your observation applies.”
“Well, I do hope not. She’s a sweet girl, and so sensible.” She studied his face. “She’s extremely pretty, Haso.”
“Indeed she is. Also not very
