“It is all right,” he said, answering the mute question, a great joy thrilling him as he saw that she had been anxious about him. “You should not have been afraid.”
“I couldn't help it,” she said, coloring, “he is such a hateful man! A man who might do anything. Tell me what happened.”
“I gave him a thrashing which he'll not soon forget,” said Brian. “But don't let us speak of him any more.”
“Perhaps he'll summons you!” said Erica.
“He won't dare to. He knows that he deserved it. What are you writing? You ought to be resting.”
“Only copying out my article. The boy will be here before long.”
“I am your doctor,” he said, feeling her pulse, and again assuming his authoritative manner; “I shall order you to rest on your couch at once. I will copy this for you. What is it on?”
“Cremation,” said Erica, smiling a little. “A nice funereal subject for a dreary day. Generally, if I'm in wild spirits, Mr. Bircham sends me the very gloomiest subject to write on, and if I'm particularly blue, he asks for a bright, lively article.”
“Oh! He tells you what to write on?”
“Yes, did you think I had the luxury of choosing for myself? Every day, about eleven o'clock a small boy brings me my fate on a slip of paper. Let me dictate this to you. I'm sure you can't read that penciled scribble.”