Mrs. Adams turned toward him now; she came to the bedside and would have taken his hand, but he quickly moved it away from her.
“You mustn't let yourself get nervous,” she said. “But of course when you get well there's only one thing to do. You mustn't go back to that old hole again.”
“'Old hole?' That's what you call it, is it?” In spite of his weakness, anger made his voice strident, and upon this stimulation she spoke more urgently.
“You just mustn't go back to it, Virgil. It's not fair to any of us, and you know it isn't.”
“Don't tell me what I know, please!”
She clasped her hands, suddenly carrying her urgency to plaintive entreaty. “Virgil, you WON'T go back to that hole?”
“That's a nice word to use to me!” he said. “Call a man's business a hole!”
“Virgil, if you don't owe it to me to look for something different, don't you owe it to your children? Don't tell me you won't do what we all want you to, and what you know in your heart you ought to! And if you HAVE got into one of your stubborn fits and are bound to go back there for no other reason except to have your own way, don't tell me so, for I can't bear it!”
He looked up at her fiercely. “You've got a fine way to cure a sick man!” he said; but she had concluded her appeal—for that time—and instead of making any more words in the matter, let him see that there were tears in her eyes, shook her head, and left the room.
Alone, he lay breathing rapidly, his emaciated chest proving itself equal to the demands his emotion put upon it. “Fine!” he repeated, with husky indignation. “Fine way to cure a sick man! Fine!” Then, after a silence, he gave forth whispering sounds as of laughter, his expression the while remaining sore and far from humour.