"Er—yes," said the doctor. "Er—I shouldn't lift any heavy weights, if I were you—not just for the present, you know."
Helen put the child down, with the slightest shadow in her eyes. Something impelled me, at this, to rush to Helen's side and put my arm about her. We stood facing the doctor, almost defiantly.
"I think I'll have a try for the 4.50—by the way, I suppose you'll be in town, both of you, for the horseshow at Olympia next week?"
"Of course," said Helen; "we never miss that."
"Look in at my office as you pass by. Don't fail. Good-bye," and he was off.
Helen took the baby to the nurse and came back to me. She put her hands on my shoulders, and said: "Now, Ted, tell me what the doctor told you. No fibs, please, sweetheart."
I looked at her grey eyes and had to fight to keep the tears out of my own.
"We neither of us know for certain yet, my wife dear. He's having your sputum analyzed."
"Can you analyze it, Ted?"
"No, dear. I know nothing of physiological chemistry—and I haven't a proper microscope for that work."