Carve. Yes. Cousin Cyrus thought so too. He didn't want me to bring it away. Still, I beat him on that point. (Janet arranges the collar.) Do you know, you do me good.
Janet. I should think so. I suppose when gentlemen live alone they're pretty nearly always unwell, as it were. If it isn't a cold, it's stomach, I expect. And truly, I'm not surprised, the way they go on! Now, will you sit down in that chair and keep your legs covered—August or no August! If you ask me, it's influenza you're sickening for. (Sound of distant orchestral.) Music?
Carve. (Nodding and sitting down in easy chair.) Well, and what's the news from outside? I haven't stirred since yesterday noon.
Janet. Seems to me there's no news except your Mr. Carve's death.
Carve. Really! Is it so much talked about as all that?
Janet. It's on all the posters—very big. All along Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square and the Strand the newspaper boys, and the newspaper old men too, are wearing it like aprons, as it were. I read the Telegraph myself. There was nearly a page of it in the Telegraph.
Carve. (Staggered.) Nearly a page of it in the Telegraph!
Janet. Yes, besides a leading article. Haven't you——
Carve. I never read obituaries of artists in the papers.
Janet. Neither do I. But I should have thought you would.