'You are unreasonable, Hyacinth! Would you prefer a rival of flesh and blood. Don't be so fanciful, dear. It's too foolish. You've got your wish; enjoy it. I consider that you haven't a trouble in the world.'
'Dear Edith,' said Hyacinth, 'have you troubles?'
'Why, of course I have—small ones. Bruce has taken to having a different illness every day. His latest is that he imagines he's a malade imaginaire!'
'Good gracious, how complicated! What makes him think that?'
'Because he's been going to specialists for everything he could think of, and they all say he's specially well. Still, it's better than if he were really ill, I suppose. Only he's very tormenting, and hardly ever works, and lately he's taken to making jealous scenes.'
'Oh, that must be rather fun. Who is he jealous of?'
'Why, he thinks he's jealous of his friend Raggett—the most impossible, harmless creature in the world; and the funny thing is whenever Bruce is jealous of anyone he keeps on inviting them—won't leave them alone. If I go out when Raggett appears, he says it's because I'm so deep; and if I stay he finds fault with everything I do. What do you advise me to do, Hyacinth?'
'Why, give him something more genuine to worry about—flirt with a real person. That would do Bruce good, and be a change for you.'
'I would—but I haven't got time! What chance is there for flirting when I have to be always contriving and economising, and every scrap of leisure I must be there or thereabouts in case Bruce has heart disease or some other illness suddenly? When you are living with a strong young man who thinks he's dangerously ill, flirting is not so easy as it sounds. When he isn't here I'm only too glad to rest by playing with Archie.'
'I see. What do you think could cure Bruce of his imaginary maladies?'