“How do you know?” cried Bracy petulantly.
“Morton ways so.”
“Morton’s an old—old—old woman,” cried Bracy angrily. “I’m sick of him. I’m sick of that other disagreeable woman. I’m sick of physic—sick of everything.”
“Poor old chap!” said Roberts, laying his cool hand upon his friend’s burning forehead. “Come, you’ll feel better after that.”
“Don’t—don’t talk that way—and take away your hand. You make me feel as if I must hit you.”
“I wish you would, old man, if it would make you feel better.”
“Better! Pah! It’s horrible. Morton only talks. Says I’m better when I’m worse.”
“Oh, come now, that won’t do, you know. You are stronger.”
“Pah! How can I be stronger when I am as weak as a baby, unable to move hand or foot? There; I beg pardon for being so disagreeable.”
“Oh, nonsense! Who thinks you disagreeable?”