"How I wish there was a piano here," I remarked à propos of nothing—and of course she greeted this, with her usual silence.
"I am feeling so rotten if I could hear some music it would make me better."
She made the faintest movement with her head, to show me I suppose that she was listening respectfully, but saw no occasion to reply.
I felt so unspeakably wretched and helpless and useless lying there, I had not the pluck to go on trying to talk, so I closed my eye and lay still, and then I heard Alathea rise and softly go towards the door—.
"I will type this at home—and return it to the flat on Tuesday if that will be all right," she said—and: I answered:
"Thank you" and turned my face to the wall—And after a little, when she had gone, Burton came in and gave me the medicine the Doctor had told him to give me, he said—but I have a strong suspicion it was simply asperine, for then I fell into a dreamy sleep and forgot my aching body and my troubled mind.
And now I am much better in health again—and am back in Paris and to-night Maurice, up from Deauville at last, is coming to dine with me.
But what is the good of it all?