It was getting very cold, and I put the rug carefully about her.
"You're very good," she said, "but wait."
I felt her hand on my knee.
"Oh, you haven't got any of it."
She would have untucked it again if I hadn't caught her wrist.
"That's all right," I said. "I'm not allowed rugs."
"Nonsense."
"My dear, doctor's orders. The last thing the great Harley Street specialist said to me, as I pushed the two pounds two shillings beneath the current number of The Lancet, was, 'Now, mind, no rugs. Eat and drink what you like. Smoke in moderation, and get up as late as you please. But no rugs.'"
As the wrist felt unconvinced, I slipped it through my arm, where it lay comfortably enough.
"Do you often do this sort of thing?" I said presently.