Presently Doctor Denton came, and drew a chair close to the bed.
"Your roses are wonderful," he remarked conversationally.
Here was a subject on which I cannot fail to become eloquent. I opened my eyes. This was a mistake, for in so doing I met that steel-blue glance which always disconcerts me.
"They are," I said, and let the opening pass.
"I'd like to see some there," he continued, very rudely pointing his finger at my face.
I put my hands hastily to my cheeks.
"Now," he announced with satisfaction, "that's more like!"
Diary, it was stupid of me to blush!
"You do not admire pallor?" I asked politely.
"Certainly not the pallor of ill-health," was the professional answer. "It may be poetic, but it is hardly—practical."