One morning in the summer third of June my lady came early and surprised
me at this business of pacing back and forth. Whereat she scolded me as
was her wont when I grew restive.

"What weighty thing have you to do that you should be so fierce to be
about it, Monsieur Impetuous?" she cried. "_Fi donc!_ you'd try the
patience of a saint!"

"Which you are not," I ventured. "But truly, Margery, I am growing
stronger now, and the bed does irk me desperately, if you must know.
Besides--"

"Well, what is there else besides? Do I not pamper you enough?"

I laughed. "I'll say whatever you would have me say--so it be not the
truth."

"I'll have you say nothing until you sit down."

She pushed the great chair of Indian wickerwork into place before the
window-bay, and when I was at rest she drew up a low hassock and sat at
my feet.

"Now you may go on," she said.

"You have not told me what you would have me say."

"The truth," she commanded.

"'"What is truth," said jesting Pilate,'" I quoted. "Why do you suppose