That was all he could mutter. Then he swooned, unconsciousness supervened; he had come to the end of his tether.
The bad time continued longer than he cared to count. The days slipped by, and still he lay in that bed. One morning he asked her,--
"How's it going?"
"As well as can be expected; better perhaps. But this is not going to be a five minutes' job--you know better than that?"
"I ought to have let old Harford cut it off; I should have made a quicker recovery."
"Nonsense. In that case you would never, in the real sense of the word, have recovered at all. Now there's every probability of your being as sound as ever. You only want time. There's no inflammation; the wound keeps perfectly sweet. You've a fine physique; you've lived cleanly. I counted upon these things when I took the chances."
Two days afterwards he broached another matter.
"You know I can't stop here. I'm putting you to tremendous expense, and no end of inconvenience. The idea's monstrous. I'm ashamed of myself for having stopped so long. You must have me put into the ambulance at once and carted home."
"You will stay where you are. I'm in charge of this case. I decline to allow you to be moved."
"But--!"