"Go out! Havers! man, I'll be dancing at your wedding before the week is out!" The gruff Scotch doctor, shaved, and clad in khaki and alert, laughed. "You're doing fine!"
"Wedding," Walter Markham said weakly. "I shall be all right? My arm? There—there isn't any reason why I shouldn't marry?"
"None on earth."
He looked at me. There was a radiancy in his eyes, a sort of throbbing happiness.
"O God!" he said, "I'm so happy!"
The house surgeon took me away; he was babbling foolishly, and he looked like an excited rocking-horse; he had a long narrow face and wide nostrils.
"Splendid!" he kept saying. "Absolutely top-hole! Splendid! Good chap, yours! Splendid!"
"He's going to live?" I said. Suddenly I felt very tired, as if my eyelids had been pressed back.
"Of course! The hospital must have some of your wedding-cake. Oh, splendid!"
The matron came down the long corridor.