“No, it is about myself.”
“Yourself, dearest? And what about yourself?”
“Alfred, I have not been feeling myself lately.”
“Why—how—what d’you mean? You’re not ill, are you?”
“Well, not exactly ill; I can’t truthfully say that; yet I’ve not been myself, I’ve not felt myself, I’ve not looked myself—”
“No, I’ve noticed how very much paler you have grown; you seem to have lost your nice fresh color.”
She had lost her nice fresh color; it had disappeared with the advent of the powder box, and Alfred had not, to use a very slang phrase, dropped down to the fact.
“Well, I don’t believe in leaving these things to mend themselves,” Regina went on, busily pleating and unpleating the deep black lace which adorned the sleeves of her handsome tea-gown, “it’s better to stop anything of that sort at the outset.”
“Well, you’ve been to a doctor?”
“Yes, I’ve been strongly advised to go to Dr. Money-Berry in Harley Street. You see, I’ve got so very stout lately, Alfred, and he thinks my having gained in weight has put me all wrong. My heart is very feeble—compared with what it used to be.”