Bruce had had influenza, and when Edith came in with her news, she could not at once make up her mind to tell him, fearing his anger.
He was lying on the sofa with the paper, grumbling at the fuss made about the Sicilian players, of whom he was clearly jealous.
She sat down by his side and agreed with him.
'I'm much worse since you went out. You know the usual results of influenza, don't you? Heart failure, or nervous depression liable to lead to suicide.'
'But you're much better, dear. Dr Braithwaite said it was wonderful how quickly you threw it off.'
'Threw it off! Yes, but that's only because I have a marvellous constitution and great will-power. If I happened to have had less strength and vitality, I might easily have been dead by now. I wish you'd go and fetch me some cigarettes, dear. I have none left.'
She got up and went to the door.
'What are you fidgeting about, Edith?' said he. 'Can't you keep still? It's not at all good for a convalescent to have a restless person with him.'
'Why, I was only going to fetch—'
'I know you were; but you should learn repose, dear. First you go out all the morning, and when you come home you go rushing about the room.'