“It is doing you a lot of harm. And what makes you think you’ve got neuritis?”
“What ailed your Margaret?” I answered mockingly. “Did you ever find that out?”
“No ... yes. Of course I knew.”
“Did you ever examine her?” I was curious to know that; suddenly and inconsequently curious.
“Why do you ask?” But his face changed, and I knew the question had been cruel or impertinent. He let go my hand abruptly, he had been holding it all this time. “I did all that any doctor could.” He was obviously distressed and I ashamed.
“Don’t go yet. Sit down and have a cup of tea with me. I’ve been here three weeks and every meal has been solitary. Your Margaret”—I smiled at him then, knowing he would not understand—“comes to me sometimes at night with my nepenthe, but all day I am alone.”
“By your own desire then, I swear. You are not a woman to be left alone if you wanted company.” He dropped into a chair, seemed glad to stay. Presently over tea and crumpets, we were really talking of my illness, and if I had permitted it I have no doubt he would have gone into the matter more closely. As it was he warned me solemnly against the nepenthe and suggested I should try codein as an alternative, a suggestion I ignored completely, unfortunately for myself.
“Tell me about your partner,” I said, drinking my tea slowly.
“Oh! you’ll like him, all the ladies like him. He is very spruce and rather handsome; dapper, band-boxy. Not tall, turning grey....”
“Did she like him?” I persisted.