“Upon my word, Peter,” she said. “Dr. Hayden orders you to stay in bed and Matilda to get up; instead of which you get up and she stays in bed—nice obedient patients you are!”
“Hayden’s a fool!” growled Burnham. “I must go down to Palmer’s office this morning, Lillian; now, I don’t wish to discuss the matter with you, just call a taxi—there’s a dear.”
Instead of complying with his request Mrs. Burnham sat down in the nearest chair and contemplated her husband.
“Dan Maynard has gone to see Jim and is bringing him back to lunch,” she said. “You will have to possess your soul in patience until then, Peter. I have no idea of letting you go out with your temperature.”
“Temperature! Fiddle-sticks! I am just a bit feverish.” Burnham stroked his cheek until he became conscious that his wife was regarding the strip of plaster across his face with interest. “I scratched myself in shaving,” he explained hurriedly. “I wish you wouldn’t sit there and look at me.”
Mrs. Burnham laughed as she leaned forward and picked up her knitting bag from her sewing table. “I am afraid, my dear, you will have to learn to control your nerves; especially if you want to shave yourself and preserve your good looks at the same time,” she remarked kindly. “Go on reading your paper, Peter.”
Burnham kicked the paper contemptuously. “Nothing in it but war news,” he said. “I’m sick of the war.”
“So are we all, but we are going to win it just the same.” Mrs. Burnham shook the khaki sweater she was knitting with vigor. “Every stitch helps.”
“Hump! You knitters remind me of the women who sat at the foot of the guillotine in the French Revolution,” grumbled Burnham. “I never saw a woman yet who wasn’t attracted by crime and war is a gigantic crime.”
“Peter!” Mrs. Burnham straightened up and her indignation was plainly manifest. “You must be out of your head; don’t utter any more such remarks in my presence.”