‘I say, I hear you’re seedy,’ said Griffiths. ‘I thought I’d come in and see what was the matter with you.’
Philip, blushing he knew not why, made light of the whole thing. He would be all right in an hour or two.
‘Well, you’d better let me take your temperature,’ said Griffiths.
‘It’s quite unnecessary,’ answered Philip irritably.
Philip put the thermometer in his mouth. Griffiths sat on the side of the bed and chatted brightly for a moment, then he took it out and looked at it.
‘Now, look here, old man, you must stay in bed, and I’ll bring old Deacon in to have a look at you.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Philip. ‘There’s nothing the matter. I wish you wouldn’t bother about me.’
‘But it isn’t any bother. You’ve got a temperature and you must stay in bed. You will, won’t you?’
There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
‘You’ve got a wonderful bed-side manner,’ Philip murmured, closing his eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip’s sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.
‘Now, go to sleep and I’ll bring the old man round as soon as he’s done the wards.’
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.
‘Here’s Doctor Deacon,’ he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis.
‘What d’you make it?’ he asked Griffiths, smiling.
Doctor Deacon looked round the dingy lodging-house room.
‘Wouldn’t you like to go to the hospital? They’ll put you in a private ward, and you can be better looked after than you can here.’
‘I’d rather stay where I am,’ said Philip.
He did not want to be disturbed, and he was always shy of new surroundings. He did not fancy nurses fussing about him, and the dreary cleanliness of the hospital.
‘I can look after him, sir,’ said Griffiths at once.
‘Oh, very well.’
He wrote a prescription, gave instructions, and left.
‘Now you’ve got to do exactly as I tell you,’ said Griffiths. ‘I’m day-nurse and night-nurse all in one.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but I shan’t want anything,’ said Philip.
Griffiths put his hand on Philip’s forehead, a large cool, dry hand, and the touch seemed to him good.
‘I’m just going to take this round to the dispensary to have it made up, and then I’ll come back.’
In a little while he brought the medicine and gave Philip a dose. Then he went upstairs to fetch his books.
‘You won’t mind my working in your room this afternoon, will you?’ he said, when he came down. ‘I’ll leave the door open so that you can give me a shout if you want anything.’
Later in the day Philip, awaking from an uneasy doze, heard voices in his sitting-room. A friend had come in to see Griffiths.
‘I say, you’d better not come in tonight,’ he heard Griffiths saying.
And then a minute or two afterwards someone else entered the room and expressed his surprise at finding Griffiths there. Philip heard him explain.
‘I’m looking after a second year’s man who’s got these rooms. The wretched blighter’s down with influenza. No whist tonight, old man.’
Presently Griffiths was left alone and Philip called him.
‘I say, you’re not putting off a party tonight, are you?’ he asked.
‘Not on your account. I must work at my surgery.’
‘Don’t put it off. I shall be all right. You needn’t bother about me.’
‘That’s all right.’
Philip grew worse. As the night came on he became slightly delirious, but towards morning he awoke from a restless sleep. He saw Griffiths get out of an arm-chair, go down on his knees, and with his fingers put piece after piece of coal on the fire. He was in pyjamas and a dressing-gown.
‘What are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘Did I wake you up? I tried to make up the fire without making a row.’
‘Why aren’t you in bed? What’s the time?’
‘About five. I thought I’d better sit up with you tonight. I brought an arm-chair in as I thought if I put a mattress down I should sleep so soundly that I shouldn’t hear you if you wanted anything.’
‘I wish you wouldn’t be so good to me,’ groaned Philip. ‘Suppose you catch it?’
‘Then you shall nurse me, old man,’ said Griffiths, with a laugh.
In the morning Griffiths drew up the blind. He looked pale and tired after his night’s watch, but was full of spirits.
‘Now, I’m going to wash you,’ he said to Philip cheerfully.
‘I can wash myself,’ said Philip, ashamed.
‘Nonsense. If you were in the small ward a nurse would wash you, and I can do it just as well as a nurse.’
Philip, too weak and wretched to resist, allowed Griffiths to wash his hands and face, his feet, his chest and back. He did it with charming tenderness, carrying on meanwhile a stream of friendly chatter; then he changed the sheet just as they did at the hospital, shook out the pillow, and arranged the bed-clothes.
‘I should like Sister Arthur to see me. It would make her sit up. Deacon’s coming in to see you early.’
‘I can’t imagine why you should be so good to me,’ said Philip.
‘It’s good practice for me. It’s rather a lark having a patient.’
Griffiths gave him his breakfast and went off to get dressed and have something to eat. A few minutes before ten he came back with a bunch of grapes and a few flowers.
‘You are awfully kind,’ said Philip.
He was in bed for five days.
Norah and Griffiths nursed him between them. Though Griffiths was the same age as Philip he adopted towards him a humorous, motherly attitude. He was a thoughtful fellow, gentle and encouraging; but his greatest quality was a vitality which seemed to give health to everyone with whom he came in contact. Philip was unused to the petting which most people enjoy from mothers or sisters and he was deeply touched by the feminine tenderness of this strong young man. Philip grew better. Then Griffiths, sitting idly in Philip’s room, amused him with gay stories of amorous adventure. He was a flirtatious creature, capable of carrying on three or four affairs at a time; and his account of the devices he was forced to in order to keep out of difficulties made excellent hearing. He had a gift for throwing a romantic glamour over everything that happened to him. He was crippled with debts, everything he had of any value was pawned, but he managed always to be cheerful, extravagant, and generous. He was the adventurer by nature. He loved people of doubtful occupations and shifty purposes; and his acquaintance among the riff-raff that frequents the bars of London was enormous. Loose women, treating him as a friend, told him the troubles, difficulties, and successes of their lives; and card-sharpers, respecting his impecuniosity, stood him dinners and lent him five-pound notes. He was ploughed in his examinations time after time; but he bore this cheerfully, and submitted with such a charming grace to the parental expostulations that his father, a doctor in practice at Leeds, had not the heart to be seriously angry with him.
‘I’m an awful fool at books,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but I CAN’T work.’
Life was much too jolly. But it was clear that when he had got through the exuberance of his youth, and was at last qualified, he would be a tremendous success in practice. He would cure people by the sheer charm of his manner.
Philip worshipped him as at school he had worshipped boys who were tall and straight and high of spirits. By the time he was well they were fast friends, and it was a peculiar satisfaction to Philip that Griffiths seemed to enjoy sitting in his little parlour, wasting Philip’s time with his amusing chatter and smoking innumerable cigarettes. Philip took him sometimes to the tavern off Regent Street. Hayward found him stupid, but Lawson recognised his charm and was eager to paint him; he was a picturesque figure with his blue eyes, white skin, and curly hair. Often they discussed things he knew nothing about, and then he sat quietly, with a good-natured smile on his handsome face, feeling quite rightly that his presence was sufficient contribution to the entertainment of the company. When he discovered that Macalister was a stockbroker he was eager for tips; and Macalister, with his grave smile, told him what fortunes he could have made if he had bought certain stock at certain times. It made Philip’s mouth water, for in one way and another he was spending more than he had expected, and it would have suited him very well to make a little money by the easy method Macalister suggested.
‘Next time I hear of a really good thing I’ll let you know,’ said the stockbroker. ‘They do come along sometimes. It’s only a matter of biding one’s time.’
Philip could not help thinking how delightful it would be to make fifty pounds, so that he could give Norah the furs she so badly needed for the winter. He looked at the shops in Regent Street and picked out the articles he could buy for the money. She deserved everything. She made his life very happy.