STATESMAN. Of course, Doctor, under those circumstances any flower would have been. It just happened to be that.
DOCTOR. Well, my lord, there, then, the matter is explained. You had primroses upon your mind. The difficulty, the pain even, of writing with your crippled hand, became associated with them. You would have much rather not had to write; and the disinclination, in an exaggerated form, got into your dream. Now that, I hope, mitigates for you the annoyance—the distress of mind.
STATESMAN. Yes, yes. It does, as you say, make it more understandable.
Bring them to me, Doctor; let me look my enemy in the face.
(The Doctor carries the bowl across and sets it beside him. Very feebly he reaches out a hand and takes some.)
My favourite flower. He—he! My favourite flower.
(Lassitude overtakes him—his head nods and droops as he speaks.)
A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,
And it was nothing more.
Who was it wrote that?—Byron or Dr. Watts? My memory isn't what it used to be. No matter. It all goes into the account.
My favourite flower!
"For I'm to be Queen of the May, mother, I'm to be Queen of the May!"