"Why not? I merely made a statement of fact. And, of course, you are suffering from the after effects of overindulgence."
That was a charming fashion in which to endeavour to smooth the pillow of an invalid. I changed the subject.
"How is Minna?"
Minna is my little girl--a little fair-haired darling she is. With all her father's tender-heartedness; more--with, I hope, some of that father's power of forgiving injuries.
"I am going to send her away to-day."
"Send her away?"
"Certainly. I have not yet made up my mind whether I shall go with her myself or send nurse with her alone. Are you well enough to enter into a discussion?"
"No," I said; "I'm not."
Nor was I. At that moment I was neither mentally nor physically her equal. Since, at any time, Lucy has about nine-parts of speech to my one, I had no intention of measuring myself against her, conversationally and argumentatively, when I had none.
I was ill four days. So ill that I could not leave my bed. At least, I was clear upon that point, if no one else was. I am almost inclined to suspect that Lucy had her doubts; or she pretended to have them. I am disposed to believe that she would not have allowed me to have stayed in bed at all if she had had her way. She threw out hints about the necessity of attending to matters in the City; though I explained to her, as clearly as my illness would permit me, that in the City things were absolutely stagnant. Then she dropped hints upon more delicate subjects still; but to these I resolutely turned a deaf ear. I vowed that I was too ill to listen.