"
"It will be some time before he can be back at the theatre?"
"It will be a very long time. There is some slight congestion of the
throat as well. When he pulls through with the fever, he will most
likely be sent abroad, for rest to his throat."
She considered for a second or two; then she said, with a matter-of-fact
air:
"They needn't make a fuss about that. His throat will be all right. It
is only repeated congestions that seriously affect the membrane; and he
has been exceptionally lucky--or exceptionally strong, perhaps. Who is
his doctor?"
"Dr. Ballardyce."
"Don't know him."
"Then there's Dr. Whitsen."
"Oh, _that's_ all right--_he'll_ do. It's the voice that's the important
thing; the general system must take its chance. Well, tell him I'm very
sorry. I suppose there's nothing one can send him?"
"Thank you, I don't think there is anything. Look at the flowers and
grapes and things there--already--and this is Sunday."
She glanced at those gifts with open disdain.
"Very easy for rich folks to show their sympathy by sending an order to
their head-gardener!"
"I will tell him that you called, and left kind messages for him.
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