“Where is Stuart?”
“Out somewhere.”
“May I have a drink?”
I gave him that.
“And you have been taking care of me—all the time?”
“Not all. Mamma and Mrs. Whitcomb have done the most of it.”
“Was I near dying?”
“We thought so, at one time,” I answered, rather slowly, not feeling quite sure that the admission was right.
“It wouldn’t have been much loss. Both Stephen and Stuart would have been glad, no doubt, or, at least, relieved. Don’t look so horror-stricken.”
“I think you are unjust to both your brothers,” I said. “But perhaps it is best not to talk any more. You are still weak.”