"But it is all too wonderful," she said. "What happened? Where have you been?"
"Two broken legs,—compound fractures,—frozen feet,—gangrene—ugh!—fierce—cut it out!"
"The gangrene!" cried Zizi, horrified.
"Yes, but I didn't mean that. I meant can the description of my sufferings! They'd put the early Christian martyrs to the blush. They would indeed! But let's take up the tale from the present moment."
"Oh, wait a minute,—do! Who rescued you? Why haven't you——"
"Lumbermen,—camp, miles from any sort of a lemon. Couldn't get into communication. Fiercest winter ever known,—everything cut off from everything else. Came home the minute I could,—and,—oh, thunder! how I want to know things! Tell me heaps, do! And who are you, anyway?"
"Heavens, what a tale! Yes, I'll tell you everything, but what shall I fly at first? And—oh, I can't stand the responsibility of your secret! I can't! Why are you keeping it secret? On account of your father?"
"Yes, that's the sole reason. How can I come forward,—the son who is supposed dead,—who is supposed to come back as a spook,—the son who has had a book written about him——"
"Oh, what a situation! And your father so wrapped up in the whole business,—so positive in his beliefs——"
"And that rascally medium!"