Guy. Why, what has happened, Katya?
Katya. Nothing. Mother merely anticipates.
NERVES
WHEN Dr. Julian Sylvester arrived at Doiran, he took a room at the house of Draco’s mother, and his mule was put to grass in the fields behind the town. Draco, rather shy, but hot with curiosity, carried his baggage upstairs—a large trunk, six wooden boxes clamped with iron, and a small sack of provisions. Placing these on the floor against the wall, he turned to leave, but stopped when Sylvester called him.
“You speak Greek, eh?” asked the doctor.
“Yes, sir, and Bulgarian as well.”
“Well, I’m going to stay here a week—see? And I want you to get me a young and strong guide—a man who knows the country—every yard of it. I’m collecting butterflies and taking photographs.”
Draco’s face lit up and shone.