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" No," said Doris, bending over her desk till her curls fell in a
tangle over her white cheeks. " I do not like to," she protested
at last, with an attempt at naivete which seemed real enough to him.
" Well, leave out the fretful if you must, but keep in the exacting.
I have been exacting, you know."
Silence, broken only by the scratching of the stubborn,
illy-directed pen.
"It's down," she whispered. She said, afterward, that it was like
writing with a ghost looking over one's shoulder.
"Then add, 'Mr. Brotherson has had a slight attack of fever, but he
is getting well fast, and will soon -, Do I run on too quickly?"
"No, no, I can follow."
"But not without losing breath; eh, Doris?"
As he laughed, she smiled. There was a heroism in that smile,
Oswald Brotherson, of which you knew nothing.
"You might speak a little more slowly," she admitted.
Quietly he repeated the last phrase. "'But he is getting well fast
and will soon be ready to take up the management of the Works which
was given him just before he was taken ill.' That will show her
that I am working up," he brightly remarked as Doris carefully
penned the last word. "Of myself you need say nothing more, unless
-" he paused and his face took on a wistful look which Doris dared
not meet; "unless - but no, no, she must think it has been only a
passing indisposition. If she knew I had been really ill, she would
suffer, and perhaps act imprudently or suffer and not dare to act
at all, which might be sadder for her still. Leave it where it is
and begin about yourself. Write a good deal about yourself, so that
she will see that you are not worried and that all is well with us
here. Cannot you do that without assistance? Surely you can tell
her about that last piece of embroidery you showed me. She will be
glad to hear - why, Doris!"
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