"I know you are, girl," he answered heartily. "But it struck me all of a heap, somehow, seeing you stretched out like this. I knew you would be laid up, of course; but, don't you know, you can think about a thing all right, but it's different when you actually run up against it."
She laughed gaily. "Does anyone else say things just like you?" she wondered. "That sounds just like your dear old slangy self, Micky. But anyway, you hit the nail on the head, every time."
"And drive it through." He grinned joyfully at her. "Talk some more like that, Maisie," he urged her. "You sound like yourself. Oh, we'll have you on your pins in no time."
"You bet!" She smiled back at him. "Oh, I hadn't ought to complain, I know. Others are having it worse than me. There's poor Julia Orr, worked in the store with me once. She died yesterday—"
"Don't, Maisie!" His voice was unsteady. "Don't speak of dying—anybody! I can't stand it! I hate the thought of it!"
"Why, Micky!" Her blue eyes were solemn. "We all die, don't we? You've known it almost since you were born. You've got to get used to it."
He forced a smile. "Well, we won't talk about it now," he declared. "It's depressing. How'd you like your flowers?"
"Oh!" she cried, in distress. "And I meant to thank you for 'em when you first came in, and I forgot it. You ought to feel complimented. You drove 'em out of my mind. Bring 'em here."
"Match the room," he commented, as he complied. She smiled assent, and, selecting one of the white roses, raised herself upon her pillows and pinned it upon his coat lapel. "There!" said she, admiring the effect. "You'll do, now."
Again his wide grin cleft his freckled face. "The whole conservatory wouldn't help much," he observed.