“I am the best judge of that, Mr. Polk,” returned the lady, coldly.
“You had better call next week,” put in Jennie. And she added in a whisper to her mother, “Papa may hear him talking, and that will make trouble.”
“Yes, Mr. Polk, you can call next week,” went on Mrs. Bartlett. “Then, if my husband improves, perhaps you can see him.”
“You seem to be in an awful hurry to get rid of me,” grumbled the visitor.
“We do not wish you to disturb a very sick man.”
“I am not disturbing anybody.”
“He may hear you, and any loud talking excites him. I wish you would go away now.”
“I’ll go away quick enough,” said Nuggy Polk, in as loud a voice as ever. “But you don’t seem to know what is for Mr. Bartlett’s good.”
At that moment came a voice from a bed-chamber close at hand. “Viola, who is that? Who is talking about me?” The tone was weak and wild, as if the sick one was suffering from fever.
“Hush! you have already disturbed him!” cried Mrs. Bartlett. “Please go away, please do!” And she motioned Nuggy Polk to the door.