“They weren’t wheels; they were lights and waterfalls,” said the sick man meticulously.
“All right; call ’em anything you like, so long as they’re gone. We had one doctor, a specialist from Nashville, who gave us a fit of seasickness; said you’d live, and be all right physically, but that you would most probably never recover your reason. Nice cheerful prospect for the friends and relatives, wasn’t it?”
“How long have I been knocked out, Poictiers?”
“Two solid weeks.”
“My mother and sister—has anybody written them?”
“Sure! Elizabeth has been writing them every day or so. They wanted to come down, of course, but we decided that it wasn’t best. You were getting all the care you could stand.”
“Then Elizabeth hasn’t gone home?”
“Not yet. Her father and mother have gone to Florida, and she has been staying on at Westwood House—what time she hasn’t been down here coddling you. She’s an angel, Vance; one of the kind you read about. But I mustn’t let you talk too much.”
“If I can’t talk, you’ll have to. Have you made it up with Elizabeth—about that silly side-play of yours with Richardia?”
Carfax’s smile began on the cherubic lines but it ended in a mere face-wrinkling of soberness.