When he saw her, the burning colour in her face strong against the white of her pillows, he thought they must be exaggerating, and he patted her hand cheerfully.
"You've done fine, Senath, lass," he assured her. "'Tes a brave an' handsome chap, is young Samuel."
"Not Samuel," answered Senath. Her voice, though low, was composed.
"What then?" asked Sam, remembering his wife was at a time when she must be humoured as far as speech went, anyway.
"Manuel," said Senath. Then, at his start of dissent: "Yes, Manuel."
"You'm my wife, not his," said Sam. "The cheild's my cheild, not his, and et shall be called for ets father."
"I'm Manuel's wife," said Senath, "and et's Manuel's cheild."
Sam calmed down, for he was now sure that his wife was light-headed. It was a common symptom, he had been told.
"No," said Senath, answering his thought, "I'm not that wisht, Sam. I'm in my right mind, and I'm only waiten on you to go. I'm waiten to go, Sam, I'm waiten to go."
"What do you mean, lass?"