A couple of days later the doctor came to the final conclusion that it was a case of typhoid, and pronounced Mr Clinton very ill. He was indeed; he lay for days, between life and death, on his back, looking at people with dull, unknowing eyes, clutching feebly at the bed-clothes. And for hours he would mutter strange things to himself so quietly that one could not hear. But at last Dame Nature and the Scotch doctor conquered the microbes, and Mr Clinton became better.
VII
One day Mrs Clinton was talking to a neighbour in the bedroom, the patient was so quiet that they thought him asleep.
'Yes, I've 'ad a time with 'im, I can tell you,' said Mrs Clinton. 'No one knows what I've gone through.'
'Well, I must say,' said the friend, 'you haven't spared yourself; you've nursed him like a professional nurse.'
Mrs Clinton crossed her hands over her stomach and looked at her husband with self-satisfaction. But Mr Clinton was awake, staring in front of him with wide-open, fixed eyes; various thoughts confusedly ran through his head.
'Isn't 'e looking strange?' whispered Mrs Clinton.
The two women kept silence, watching him.
'Amy, are you there?' asked Mr Clinton, suddenly, without turning his eyes.