“Eh?” He put out a bony hand, and regarded her in some disappointment. “Has he told you? Perhaps you know all about it.”
“I know nothing except that—‘a girl in France,’ was all he told me. But—first about yourself. How badly are you wounded—and what can we do for you?”
She dragged from a reluctant Phineas the history of his wound and obtained confirmation of his statement from a nurse who happened to pass up the gangway of the pleasant ward and lingered by the bedside. McPhail was doing splendidly. Of course, a man with a hole through his body must be expected to go back to the regime of babyhood. So long as he behaved himself like a well-conducted baby all would be well. Peggy drew the nurse a few yards away.
“I’ve just heard that his dearest friend out there, a boy whom he loves dearly and has been through the whole thing with him in the same company—it’s odd, but he was his private tutor years ago—both gentlemen, you know—in fact, I’m here just to talk about the boy——” Peggy grew somewhat incoherent. “Well—I’ve just heard that the boy has been seriously wounded. Shall I tell him?”
“I think it would be better to wait for a few days. Any shock like that sends up their temperatures. We hate temperatures, and we’re getting his down so nicely.”
“All right,” said Peggy, and she went back smiling to Phineas. “She says you’re getting on amazingly, Mr. McPhail.”
Said Phineas: “I’m grateful to you, Mrs. Manningtree, for concerning yourself about my entirely unimportant carcass. Now, as Virgil says, ‘paullo majora canemus.’”
“You have me there, Mr. McPhail,” said Peggy.
“Let us sing of somewhat greater things. That is the bald translation. Let us talk of Doggie—if so be it is agreeable to you.”
“Carry on,” said Peggy.