‘Do they happen to be torn?’
A short pause.
‘Yessir—torn in five places.’
‘Well, see what can be done. Have I any more?’
‘No, sir. Cold or hot bath, sir?’
Bath! That was a sitting in a tin pan and lifting teaspoonfuls of water on to one’s spine; acrobatic performances to get wet, towel, huddling on of clothes.
‘Oh, cold! Bring it in half an hour.’
For half an hour I half dozed, half thought of the performance of the night. I carefully considered the question as to whether I had gone mad, and decided—rightly, I believe—that I had not, though other people would say so.
Then after breakfast we went to play golf. Yes, I was right; the anticipation, the unfulfilled certainty was over; already small buds were red on the limes, and yellow on the elm. Spring had come, and we all talked about its delights. But none knew of mine.