“What has become of Dr. Kennedy?” I asked.
“I thought you did not like him. Suzanne told me that often you would not see him when he called. And you were quite right. It was evident he did not know what was the matter with you.”
“No one does.”
“You have not helped us.” Her eyelids were pink, but otherwise she did not reproach me.
“And now I am going to die, I suppose.”
“Die! You are not going to die; don’t be so absurd. I wouldn’t let you, for one thing. And why should you? People don’t die of pleurisy, or neuritis. You are better today than you were yesterday, and you will be better still tomorrow. I know.”
Outside the room she may have wept, for, as I said, her eyelids were pink. Inside it she was all quiet confidence and courage.
“I want Dr. Kennedy. Get him back to me.” I did not argue with her whether I would live or die, it was too futile.
“This man Lansdowne is F.R.C.S. and M.D. London,” she reminded me.
“I don’t care if he’s all the letters of the alphabet. He grins at me, talks smugly, patronises me, pats my shoulder. He will send his carriage to follow the funeral. I see in his face that he has made up his mind to it.”