“Of course,” said Stratton, smiling.
“Then I say you are not,” cried Guest, “and Mr Brettison will second me. You are weak as a rat in spite of all our watching, and feeding, and care.”
“All this long, weary month,” sighed Stratton. “Heaven bless you both for what you have done.”
“Never mind about blessings; be a little grateful to Mr Brettison, who has been like a hundred hospital nurses rolled into one, and give up this mad idea.”
“But it is not mad,” pleaded Stratton. “I only want to go to the church. I am quite strong enough now. I want to see her married, that is all. Mr Brettison, you see how calm I am.”
“Yes, very,” said the old botanist, smiling sadly. “Calm with your temples throbbing and your veins too full. My dear boy, if you go to that wedding, you will over-excite yourself and we shall have a serious relapse.”
“If I do go?” said Stratton quietly. “I shall certainly have it. I mean to go.”
He rose from the couch on which he had been lying, walked into the bedroom, and closed the door.
“Did you ever see such a mule, Mr Brettison?” cried Guest as soon as they were alone. “I was a fool to come in and tell him I was going; but I thought he had got over it, and he knew it was to-day.”
“You are going as one of the friends?”