"Of course. But you must come now, Mr Stevens, or else you may deeply regret it

later."

 

Miss Kenton was already leading the way, and we hurried through the house up to

my father's small attic room. Mrs Mortimer, the cook, was standing over my

father's bed, still in her apron.

 

"Oh, Mr Stevens," she said upon our entry, "he's gone very poorly."

 

Indeed, my father's face had gone a dull reddish colour, like no colour I had

seen on a living being. I heard Miss Kenton say softly behind me: "His pulse is

very weak." I gazed at my father for a moment, touched his forehead slightly,

then withdrew my hand.

 

"In my opinion:' Mrs Mortimer said, "he's suffered a stroke. I've seen two in my

time and

 

I think he's suffered a stroke." With that, she began to cry. I noticed she

reeked powerfully of ' fat and roast cooking. I turned away and said to Miss

Kenton:

 

"This is most distressing. Nevertheless, I must now return downstairs."

 

"Of course, Mr Stevens. I will tell you when the doctor arrives. Or else when