After two weeks, she threatened to leave. I was paged over the P. A. and got to her room in time to catch her trying to zip up her skirt.
She looked at me impatiently, and then back to her abdomen. "Damned thing's getting out of hand."
She had on an expensive tweed suit, and the smart, powder-blue cashmere coat I helped her into made her look her role of distinguished world traveler, syndicated columnist and woman of parts.
She hunched her shoulders forward slightly, so the loose folds of the coat concealed her protruding middle.
"Thanks," she said casually. "I'll write you a check and be on my way."
"Dr. Sansome will be disappointed," I said casually.
"You heard from him?" she asked with interest.
I nodded.
She put her hands on her hips. "And you still persist with your fatuous idea that I'm going to have a baby?"
"Let us say," I evaded, "that we have adopted Dr. Sansome's treatment on a wait-and-see basis. You said yourself that he refused to operate. We have definitely confirmed that much. Your condition is still inoperable, but you are coming along fine."