“Not much. He's on my mind, of course.”
That and other things, Peter.
“Don't you think—wouldn't it be better to have a nurse. You can't go like this all day and be up all night, you know. And Marie has him most of the day.” McLean, of course, had known Marie before. “The boy ought to have a nurse, I think.”
“He doesn't move without my hearing him.”
“That's an argument for me. Do you want to get sick?”
Peter turned a white face toward McLean, a face in which exasperation struggled with fatigue.
“Good Lord, boy,” he rasped, “don't you suppose I'd have a nurse if I could afford it?”
“Would you let me help? I'd like to do something. I'm a useless cub in a sick-room, but I could do that. Who's the woman he liked in the hospital?”
“Nurse Elisabet. I don't know, Mac. There's no reason why I shouldn't let you help, I suppose. It hurts, of course, but—if he would be happier—”
“That's settled, then,” said McLean. “Nurse Elisabet, if she can come. And—look here, old man. I 've been trying to say this for a week and haven't had the nerve. Let me help you out for a while. You can send it back when you get it, any time, a year or ten years. I'll not miss it.”