"Couldn't be better," he replied with a groan. "The doctor said
he'd never had a more satisfactory case in all his experience."
"Oh, I'm glad to hear that," I answered; "I was afraid you'd been
worrying yourself."
"Worried!" he exclaimed. "My dear boy, I don't know whether I'm
standing on my head or my heels" (he gave one that idea). "This is
the first morsel of food that's passed my lips for twenty-four
hours."
At this moment the nurse appeared at the top of the stairs. He
flew towards her, upsetting the lemonade in his excitement.
"What is it?" he asked hoarsely. "Is it all right?"
The old lady glanced from him to his cold chop, and smiled
approvingly.
"They're doing splendidly," she answered, patting him on the
shoulder in a motherly fashion. "Don't you worry."
"I can't help it, Mrs. Jobson," he replied, sitting down upon the
bottom stair, and leaning his head against the banisters.
"Of course you can't," said Mrs. Jobson admiringly; "and you
wouldn't be much of a man if you could." Then it was borne in upon
me why he wore his hat, and dined off cold chops in the passage.
The following summer they rented a picturesque old house in
Berkshire, and invited me down from a Saturday to Monday.
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