'Very possibly. I don't know that I've so very much confidence in Braithwaite. I practically told him so. At least I suggested to him, when he seemed so confident about my recovery, that he should have a consultation. I thought it only fair to give him every chance.'
'And what did he say?'
'He didn't seem to see it. Just go and get the cards, Edith, that have been left during my illness. It's the right thing for me to write to everyone, and thank them for their kindness.'
'But there are no cards, dear.'
'No cards?'
'You see, people who knew you were ill inquired by telephone, except your mother, and she never leaves a card.'
He seemed very disgusted.
'That's it,' he said. 'That's just like life; "laugh, and the world laughs with you; weep, and you weep alone!" Get out of the running, and drop aside, and you're forgotten. And I'm a fairly popular man, too; yet I might have died like a dog in this wretched little flat, and not a card.—What's that ring?'
'It must be your mother.'
Bruce leant back on the sofa in a feeble attitude, gave Edith directions to pull the blinds a little way down, and had a vase of roses placed by his side.