Jacqueline wished to decline the cup of tea, but Mrs. Quant insisted; and the girl yielded.
"Air you sure you feel well, Miss Nevers?" she asked anxiously.
"Why, of course."
"Don't be too sure," said Mrs. Quant ominously. "Sometimes them that feels bestest is sickest. I've seen a sight of sickness in my day, dearie—typod, mostly. You ain't never had typod, now, hev you?"
"Typhoid?"
"Yes'm, typod!"
"No, I never did."
"Then you take an old woman's advice, Miss Nevers, and don't you go and git it!"
Jacqueline promised gravely; but Mrs. Quant was now fairly launched on her favourite topic.
"I've been forty-two years in this place—and Quant—my man—he was head farmer here when he was took. Typod, it was, dearie—and you won't never git it if you'll listen to me—and Quant, a man that never quarreled with his vittles, but he was for going off without 'em that morning. Sez he, 'Cassie, I don't feel good this mornin'!'—and a piece of pie and a pork chop layin' there onto his plate. 'My vittles don't set right,' sez he; 'I ain't a mite peckish.' Sez I, 'Quant, you lay right down, and don't you stir a inch! You've gone and got a mild form of typod,' sez I, knowing about sickness as I allus had a gift, my father bein' a natural bone-setter. And those was my very words, dearie, 'a mild form of typod.' And I was right and he was took. And when folks ain't well, it's mostly that they've got a mild form of typod which some call malairy——"