NURSE. It would be less tiring for you, sir.
CHAMBERLAIN. Yes. Ask him to come in.
(So that being settled, she goes, and he sits waiting. The afternoon sunlight is making the orchids look more resplendently themselves than ever. So still, so vivid, so alive, they hang their snake-like heads in long pendulous clusters; and among them all there is not a single one which shows the slightest sign of falling-off or decay. Presently the door is softly opened, and the Nurse, entering only to retire again, ushers in the Distinguished Visitor, whose brow, venerable with intellect, and grey with the approach of age, crowns a figure still almost youthful in its elasticity and grace, and perfect in the deliberate ease and deportment of its entry into a situation which many would find difficult. As he approaches the wheeled chair, the kindness, modesty, and distinction of his bearing prepare the way before him, and his silence has already said the nicest of nice things, in the nicest possible way, before he actually speaks. This he does not do till he has already taken and held the hand which the other has tried to offer.)
DISTINGUISHED VISITOR. My dear Chamberlain, how very good of you to let me come?
CHAMBERLAIN. Not too much out of your way, I hope?
DIST. V. On the contrary, I could wish it were more, if that might help to express my pleasure in seeing you again.
CHAMBERLAIN. Well, what there is of me, you see. You are looking well.
DIST. V. And you—much better than I expected.
CHAMBERLAIN. Did you expect anything?
DIST. V. I was told that you had bad days occasionally, and were unable to see anybody. I hope I am fortunate, and that this is one of your good ones?