"Was it beautiful?"
"Very beautiful, Ronnie."
"I am longing to get back to play my 'cello again."
"By-and-by, dear."
"Did I talk much of the 'cello when I was ill?"
"A good deal. But you talked chiefly of your travels and adventures; such weird things, that the doctors often thought they were a part of your delirium. But I found them all clearly explained in your manuscript. I hope you won't mind, Ronnie. They asked me to glance through it, in order to see whether anything to be found there threw light on your illness. But of course you know, dearest, I could not do that. I never 'glanced through' any manuscript of yours yet. Either I do not touch them at all, or I read them carefully every word. I read this carefully."
"Is it all right?"
"Ronnie, it is magnificent! Quite the best thing you have done yet. Such brilliant descriptive writing. Even in the midst of my terrible anxiety, I used to be carried right away from all my surroundings. Of course I do not yet know the end; but when you are able to work again we can talk it all over, and you will tell me."
His sad face brightened. A look of real gladness came into it; the first she had seen for so long.
"I am glad it is all right," he said, simply. "I thought it was. I am glad I am not altogether a rotter."