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 8 “Poor dear,” she says, “your appetite has completely gone,” and then she rushes to the kitchen to cook the sole with her own hands. In half an hour she steals into your room with it, and then you (who have been wondering why she is so long) start up protesting:

“I hope, Marion, this is nothing for me.”

“Only the least bit of a sole, dear.”

“But I told you I could eat nothing.”

“Well, this is nothing, it is so small.”

You look again, and see with relief that it is a large sole.

“I would much rather that you took it away.”

“But, dear”

“I tell you I have no appetite.”

“Of course I know that; but how can you hope to preserve your strength if you eat so little? You have had nothing all day.”

You glance at her face to see if she is in earnest, for you can remember three breakfasts, four luncheons and two dinners; but evidently she is not jesting. Then you yield.

“Oh, well, to keep my health up I may just put a fork into it.”

“Do, dear; it will do you good, though you have no caring for it.”

Take a holiday in bed, if only to discover what an angel your wife is.

There is one thing to guard against. Never call it a holiday. Continue not to feel sure what is wrong with you, and to talk vaguely of getting up presently. Your wife will suggest calling in the doctor, but pooh-pooh him. Be firm on that point. The chances are that he won’t understand your case.