There was nothing to be said.... One must have one's tea. I went down the ward to the bunk, and we cut the pink iced cake left over from Christmas....
I did not mean to forget him, but I forgot him. From birth to death we are alone....
But one of the Sisters remembered him.
"Mr. Wicks is still in the dumps," she remarked.
"What is really the matter with him, Sister?"
"Locomotor ataxy." And she added as she drank her tea, "It's his own fault."
"Oh, hush, hush!" my heart cried soundlessly to her, "You can't judge the bitterness of this, nun, from your convent...!"
Alas, Mr. Wicks!... No wonder you saved your money to spend upon specialists! How many years have you walked in fear of this? He took your money, the gentleman in Harley Street, and told you that you might go in peace. He blessed you and gave you salvation.
And the bitterest thing of all is that you paid for him like an officer and he was wrong.