“And right away, and seriously, too,” continued Mrs. Talkyerdeth, setting her lips firmly.
“What are you talking about, Maria?” demanded Mr. Talkyerdeth impatiently.
“Well, it’s so,” asserted Mrs. Talkyerdeth decidedly. “Will you telephone for a surgeon, or shall I?”
“Why, my dear,” protested Mr. Talkyerdeth anxiously, “I hadn’t the least suspicion that there was anything the matter with you.”
“There isn’t,” snapped Mrs. Talkyerdeth. “Do you take me for one of these puling, pasty, putty-like females all the women seem to be nowadays?”
“Well, there’s nothing the matter with me, either,” asserted Mr. Talkyerdeth, with intense relief in every glad accent. “I never felt better in my life than I do this minute.”
“I know it. But what difference does that make?” demanded Mrs. Talkyerdeth sharply.
“Eh?” cried Mr. Talkyerdeth, his eyelids flying up and his lower jaw dropping down until there seemed to be some danger of their colliding, if they kept on, in the middle of the back of his head.
“I never was so mortified in my life as I was at the sewing society this afternoon, and it’s never going to happen again,” replied Mrs. Talkyerdeth positively. “So you can just make up your mind that the doctor is going to chop something, I don’t care what, out of one of us right straight off. Why, every woman there was telling all about either her own or her husband’s operation, and I had to sit with my mouth shut all afternoon, just because we’ve never had one!”
Alex. Ricketts.