Helen looked around at him in pretended sympathy.
“What’s the symptoms? Nothing outward? I mean that tie—that’s not a symptom, is it?”
Bill shook his head. He was smiling, but beneath his smile there was a certain seriousness.
“No. There’s no outward signs—yet. I got it through thinking too—too young. You see, I’ve done so much thinking in the last week. If it had been spread over, say six months, the hatching might have got fixed right. But it’s been too quick, and things have got addled. You see, if a hen turned on too much pressure of heat her eggs would get fried—or addled. That’s how my brain is. It’s addled.”
Helen nodded with a great show of seriousness which the twitching corners of her pretty mouth belied.
“I always thought you’d got a trouble back of your—head. But you’d best tell me. You see, I don’t get enough pressure of thinking to hatch anything. Maybe between us we can fix your mental eggs right.”
Bill’s big eyes lit with relief and hope.
“That’s bright of you. You surely are the cutest girl ever. You must have got a heap of brain to spare.”
Helen could no longer restrain her laughter.
“It’s mostly all—spare. Now, then, tell me all your troubles.”