Mrs. Aldwinkle, who in the middle of the tumult had suddenly reappeared (Irene did not know from where), expressed her horror. Doctors were one of her specialities; she was very particular about doctors. Mrs. Aldwinkle had had a number of interesting maladies in the course of her life—three nervous break-downs, an appendicitis, gout and various influenzas, pneumonias and the like, but all of them aristocratic and avowable diseases; for Mrs. Aldwinkle distinguished sharply between complaints that are vulgar and complaints of a gentlemanly sort. Chronic constipation, hernia, varicose veins (“bad legs” as the poor so gruesomely call them)—these, obviously, were vulgar diseases which no decent person could suffer from, or at any rate, suffering, talk about. Her illnesses had all been extremely refined and correspondingly expensive. What she did not know about doctors, English, French, Swiss, German, Swedish and even Japanese, was not worth knowing. Mr. Cardan’s remarks about the University of Siena impressed her profoundly.
“The only thing to do,” she said decisively, “is for Hovenden to drive straight back to Rome and bring back a specialist. At once.” She spoke peremptorily. It was a comfort for her, in her present distress of mind, to be able to do something, to make arrangements, to order people about, even herself to carry and fetch. “The Principessa gave me the name of a wonderful man. I’ve got it written down somewhere. Come.” And she darted off to her room.
Obediently Lord Hovenden followed her, wrote down the talismanic name and took himself off. Chelifer was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs.
“I may as well come with you, if you don’t mind,” he said. “I think I should only be in the way here.”
It was nearly half-past five when they started. The sun had not yet risen, but it was already light. The sky was pale grey with dark clouds low down on the horizon. There were mists in the valleys and the Lake of Bolsena was hidden from view under what seemed the waters of a milky sea. The air was cold. Driving out of the town, they met a train of pack mules climbing slowly, in the midst of a jingle of bells, up the steep street towards the market-place.
Viterbo was still asleep when they drove through. From the crest of the Ciminian mountains they first saw the sun. By seven o’clock they were in Rome. The sun-tipped obelisks, the gilded roofs and cupolas reached up out of shadow into the pale blue sky. They drove up the Corso. In the Piazza di Venezia they stopped at a café, ordered some coffee and while it was being brought looked up in a directory the address of Mrs. Aldwinkle’s doctor. He lived, they found, in the new quarter near the station.
“I leave all ve talking to you,” said Hovenden, as they sipped their coffee. “I’m no good at ve language.”
“How did you manage the other day when you had to see the doctor yourself?” Chelifer inquired.
Lord Hovenden blushed. “Well,” he said, “as a matter of fact, ve doctor I saw was English. But he’s gone away now,” he added hastily, for fear that Chelifer might suggest their bringing the English doctor along too; “gone to Naples,” he further specified, hoping by the accumulation of circumstantial details to give greater verisimilitude to his story, “for an operation.”
“He was a surgeon, then?” Chelifer raised his eyebrows.