She was playing with her silk scarf, and looking with rather a puzzled air at her husband.
“I’ve just sent off a wire to town.”
“A wire?”
“Yes, to Turner, for a first-class locum. The man will be here early to-morrow. Shut the door, dear—shut the door.”
There was an irritable harshness of voice and a jerkiness of manner that betrayed unusual lack of self-control. Her husband’s back was half turned to her, and he was scribbling on a sheet of paper that he had before him, but she could see the frown upon his forehead and the nervous working of his lips.
“What is the matter, Parker?”
“Oh, nothing serious, only one of your prophecies come home to roost.”
“My prophecies?”
“Yes, about overwork. I was a fool not to knock off earlier. Some inflammatory trouble in my eyes.”
“Eyes?”