"Why not have the whole forty, mum?" she said, as she took the slip of paper.
"Those five will be sufficient, thank you," I said coldly.
Her panting was naturally excessive as she laid the volumes on the bed.
"They are rather heavy for me to lift, Amelia," I said. "Please open PHY for me and turn over the leaves till you come to Physiology, and then go and see about some tea. I don't feel I can wait till four o'clock to-day."
"Would you like some drippin' toast, mum? I've got some lovely beef drippin' from the last sirloin which master carved all wrong. He cut it just like ribs—I mean the under-cut—instead of across. He'd have catched it if he'd been Mrs. Tompkins' husband."
"But he isn't, you see." My manner was extinguishing.
"You're a bit cross, mum?" she suggested.
"No, Amelia, I'm not, only tired—tired of waiting for Dr. Renton—tired, sick to death of lying here. Do you know how long I have lain here?"
"Seven weeks come Wednesday," she replied promptly.
"No, Amelia. You have miscalculated. You have minimised the period of time. I have lain here," and I stretched my arms wide, "a thousand days and nights, a million days and nights; and each day and night has stretched away to eternity."