Whenever my secretary was not actually writing she was looking out of
the window; sometimes she would smile and nod, and on three occasions,
while I was considering, not what I should say next, but whether or not
I could stand this sort of thing, she went gently to the window, and
asked the invalid, in a clear whisper, intended to be entirely
undisturbing, how he was getting on and if he wanted anything.
Two days after this the air was damp and rain threatened, and the
malarial gentleman was supplied with comfortable quarters in the back
parlor. I do not know whether or not he liked this better than sitting
under a tree, but I am sure that the change did not please his wife. She
could not look at him, and she could not ask him how he was getting on
and if he wanted anything. I could see that she was worried and fidgety,
although endeavoring to work as faithfully and steadily as usual. Twice
during a break in the dictation she asked me to excuse her for just one
minute, while she ran into the parlor to take a peep at him.
The next day it rained, and there seemed every probability that we
should have continued wet weather, and that it would be days before the
malarial one could sit under the apple-tree. Therefore I looked the
situation fairly in the face.
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