"My temperature's above normal," announced Robert, proudly, and then
added with regret, "but not much!"
There was the clinical thermometer--instrument which Edward Henry
despised and detested as being an inciter of illnesses--in a glass of
water on the table between the two beds.
"Father!" Robert began again.
"Well, Robert?" said Edward Henry, cheerfully. He was glad that the
child was in one of his rare loquacious moods, because the chatter not
only proved that the dog had done no serious damage--it also eased the
silent strain between himself and Nellie.
"Why did you play the Funeral March, father?" asked Robert, and the
question fell into the tranquillity of the room rather like a bomb
that had not quite decided whether or not to burst.
For the second time that evening Edward Henry was dashed.
"Have you been meddling with my music rolls?"
"No, father. I only read the labels."
This child simply read everything.
"How did you know I was playing a funeral march?" Edward Henry
demanded.
"Oh, _I_ didn't tell him!" Nellie put in, excusing herself before
she was accused. She smiled benignly, as an angel-woman, capable of
forgiving all. But there were moments when Edward Henry hated moral
superiority and Christian meekness in a wife. Moreover, Nellie
somewhat spoiled her own effect by adding, with an artificial
continuation of the smile, "You needn't look at _me_!"
Edward Henry considered the remark otiose.
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