"The doctor will be here early. I suppose I mustn't touch
your face."
Louis inquired--
"How do you know he'll be here early?"
"He said he should--because of the dressings, you know."
She went to work on the room, producing a duster from somewhere, and
ringing for Mrs. Tams, who, however, was not permitted to enter. Louis
hated these preparations for the doctor. He had never in his life been
able to understand why women were always so absurdly afraid of the
doctor's eye. As if the doctor would care! Moreover, the room was
being tidied for the doctor, not for the invalid! The invalid didn't
matter! When she came to him with a bowl of water, soap, and a towel,
he loathed the womanish scheme of being washed in bed.
"I'll get up," he said. "I'm lots better." He had previously intended
to feign extreme illness, but he forgot.
"Oh no, you won't," she replied coldly. "First you think you're dying,
and then you think you're all right. You won't stir out of that bed
till the doctor's been, at any rate."
And she lodged the bowl dangerously between his knees. He pretended to
be contemptuous of her refusal to let him get up, but in fact he
was glad of an excuse for not making good his boast.
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