"The doctor said this morning that I could be moved without danger."
"He said that it might possibly be done in two or three days—that was all. What on earth makes you so impatient? You've nothing to do. Nobody else wants to see you; and nobody here wants to get rid of you."
"You're wrong in all your three statements."
"The deuce I am! Who wants to get rid of you?"
"That shall come last. I have something to do, and somebody else does want to see me. I've got a letter from Mary here, and another from Mrs. Thomas;" and he held up to view two letters which he had received, and which had, in truth, startled him.
"Mary's duenna;—the artist who is supposed to be moulding the wife."
"Yes; Mary's duenna, or Mary's artist, whichever you please."
"And which of them wants to see you? It's just like a woman, to require a man's attendance exactly when he is unable to move."
Then Felix, though he did not give up the letters to be read, described to a certain extent their contents. "I don't know what on earth has happened," he said. "Mary is praying to be forgiven, and saying that it is not her fault; and Mrs. Thomas is full of apologies, declaring that her conscience forces her to tell everything; and yet, between them both, I do not know what has happened."
"Miss Snow has probably lost the key of the workbox you gave her."