"Well, roughly, about three weeks from the start. By then his temperature ought to be down to normal."
Lady Clifford pondered this, her hand still on Esther's arm, the fingers drumming jerkily. Then she said suddenly:
"You will think me stupid to be so emotional. The doctor does; he has no sympathy with nerves! I know many wives would take all this quite calmly, but unfortunately for me, I am too sensitive, I feel things so terribly! I keep thinking, if anything should happen to my husband…"
"But I don't see why anything should happen, he's really getting on very nicely," returned Esther, more and more perplexed.
She was unprepared for the almost fierce way in which the other turned upon her, saying:
"You think that too, do you? He is, as you say, getting on nicely, quite safely?"
It was almost accusing.
"Why, yes. I'm sure there's no immediate cause for alarm."
The delicate brows knit into a frown, the hand on Esther's arm tightened its grip.
"Then you don't think that for a man of his age and in his state of health typhoid is—is a thing to—to be frightened about? You would not be frightened for him?"