"Oh, there's no trouble at all with him," replied the young man, "but to make him stay in bed. It's all come down to a touch of sore throat, a little sort of quinsy. We were rather afraid of diphtheria, the other night."
"My cousins are having more than their share, just now. So many, many invalids.... I hope you've been well, since I saw you last?"
"Oh, thank you!--I've the health of a letter-carrier. At least, I assume they're naturally healthy, though as a matter of fact I've had three or four postmen on my list ... I'm afraid I interrupted you and Henrietta?"
"Oh, no!--Or rather, I imagine she was only too glad to be interrupted.... I was telling her all my troubles, you see."
"Have you troubles? I'm sorry."
The man spoke in a light tone, such as is suitable for friendships. Yet he must have felt a throe then, remembering his articles: now so soon to go to the "Chronicle" office and the print that cried aloud. And the girl's case, had he but known it, was like his own, only more so. Beneath the cover of her casual talk, she was aware of thought coursing like a palpitating vein under a fine skin, threatening to break through at any minute....
"Oh, so many," said Cally.
They had remained standing, for to ask the doctor to sit down had not occurred to her. The girl glanced toward the window.
"And what do you suppose Hen's prescription was?... That I should take them all to you."
There was the briefest silence.