“Plucritus is at home ill, suffering from a wound,” Vestasian went on, turning to me.
“Indeed. That will be a new experience for him,” I suggested.
“Oh, no. Not at all. He and Virginius, as a rule, manage to keep fairly even.”
“I should think as an invalid he would be rather unmanageable.”
“Not at all. Only, he has one peculiarity. When he is ill he will have no physician, however experienced and wise. He will have no one but Vestné to wait on him.”
“And is she a good nurse?”
“Oh! capital. Almost as good as I am.”
“Have you a gift that way?”
“Of course. With a wife as ailing as mine it is necessary I know something about such things.”
“Yet you are not clever enough to keep her alive.” I repented the words as soon as said, there was such a clumsy want of feeling about them.