He mentioned Eustace for the first time since he had made his perfunctory inquiry, after her visit. “I was very much worried for a time—afraid of infection. But Eustace has the constitution of an ox.”
“Your good doctoring.” And her smile was grimly gracious.
“Surgeons and nurses can do so much and no more. He may thank his sturdy Dutch ancestors and the healthy life he has led.”
Silence.
“I am afraid that shoulder will be permanently stiff,” he went on impatiently. “Hard on a writer.”
“He can dictate, I suppose.”
“He once told me he couldn’t endure the idea of anyone in the room with him when he wrote. Jealous, or something of the sort. Wanted to be alone with his characters. Authors are afflicted with temperament, you know.”
“He could tap it out with one hand. I’ve noticed one generally manages to do what one has to do. If not one way then another.”
“True. I’m glad he’d just finished his novel. By the time he is ready to begin another——”
“It would be a good idea for him to travel for a time. You might suggest it. He’s been talking of a trip to South America. How soon will he be able to travel?”