"What—did—you—say?" she gasped.
"I said: 'Will you marry me this afternoon?'" repeated Guthrie.
Bruskly she pushed that part of the phrase aside. "What did you really say?" she insisted. "What did Dr. Andrews say?"
"Dr. Andrews says that you've got typhoid fever," repeated Guthrie.
Inertly she blinked her big brown eyes for an instant. Then suddenly her hands went groping out to the arms of her chair. Her face was horror-stricken. "Why didn't he tell me, himself?"
"Because I asked him to let me tell you," said Guthrie quietly.
"When did he tell you?" she persisted.
"Just before I came up on the piazza," said Guthrie.
"How did he tell you?" she demanded.
"How did he tell me?" mused Guthrie wretchedly. After all, underneath his occasional whimsicality he was distinctly literal-minded. "How did he tell me? Why I saw them all powwowing together in the corral, and Andrews looked up sort of queer and said: 'Say, Guthrie, that little Psychology friend of yours has got typhoid fever. What in thunder are we going to do?"