"What's the matter with John?" he inquired.
"He has tuberculosis," she said.
"He has no such thing!" her father retorted. "John has Pott's Disease of the spine!"
"Yes, I know he has," she replied. "And I'm sorry for him, poor lad. But in the last year," she added, "certain complications have come. And now he's tubercular as well."
"How do you know? He doesn't cough—his lungs are sound as yours or mine!"
"No, it's—" Edith pursed her lips. "It's different," she said softly.
"Who told you?" he demanded.
"Not Deborah," was the quick response. "She knew it, I'm certain, for I find that she's been having Mrs. Neale, the woman who comes in to wash, do John's things in a separate tub. I found her doing it yesterday, and she told me what Deborah had said."
"It's the first I'd heard of it," Roger put in.
"I know it is," she answered. "For if you'd heard of it before, I don't believe you'd have been as ready as Deborah was, apparently, to risk infecting the children here." Edith's voice was gentle, slow and relentless. There was still a reflection in her eyes of the tenderness which had been there as she had soothed her child to sleep. "As time goes on, John is bound to get worse. The risk will be greater every week."