I played the opening bars of "Thank God for a Garden."
I felt like a worn-out mosquito.
"I'm afraid you're tired, Pam," he said when I had finished. "You look awfully tired."
"I think I'll go to bed," I said. "My head is rather rotten."
"I'll ask nurse to bring you an aspirin."
"No thanks—it's just sleep I want. I shall be all right to-morrow."
"I'm sorry your head is bad."
"I often get headaches."
He held open the door for me.
I wondered if he were going to refer to the five hundred pounds.