“Now let us talk of something else.”
But a topic, thus ordered up, comes with a limp; and they get lamely enough through the next hour; the bulletins to Féodorovna are delivered with a punctuality unknown on happier yesterday. It is only gradually that comfort and fluency return to them, the knowledge of the one subject which has to be skirted round, making all others seem dangerous. The war-map hung at the foot of the bed proves their best ally. In moving its pins and flags, and making out, with the nearest approach to accuracy, the scene of Captain Greene’s exploit, they grow almost easy and almost garrulous.
“What have you been talking about?” is the first question put by Miss Prince on the next scrupulously paid visit of report made by the amateur nurse.
Féodorovna has managed to fidget her temperature up to a higher point than yesterday’s, and the orange of her face is patched with the flushings of fever.
“About the war.”
“What about the war?”
“I have been moving the pins and flags on the war-map, in accordance with to-day’s news.”
“You ought not to let him mention the war.”
“I think it would be worse harm to forbid him. He would only brood the more over Captain Greene’s wounds.”
“You seem to be much better informed on the subject than I am”—very fretfully. “What else have you talked about?”