In the first days of an intended tour he had taken a slight cold. He had to leave for Birmingham on the morrow, and he reached it chilled and shivering. To sing was out of the question. He remained in the hotel, and ordered hot drinks and additional blankets. Next morning he woke with a cough, and sent for a doctor; but the cough grew worse in spite of medical aid, and when he was joined by a companion whom he had been expecting, he was found in bed with pneumonia.
He was asleep when David arrived. In the sitting-room the companion was having dinner. David accepted her presence without astonishment. She said she supposed he must be hungry, and told him to ring the bell; he answered that he was not hungry in the least. She had peroxide-of-hydrogen hair, and painted cheeks, and a coarse voice. He sat in an armchair by the fire, and looked at her.
"How soon shall I be able to go in?" he asked, trembling.
"They'll tell 'im you're here when 'e wakes up," she said, with her mouth full. "You'd better have something to eat, you know. 'David' your name is, isn't it?"
"Yes. I couldn't eat anything, thank you. Who is taking care of him?" He knew already that the companion wasn't.
"The doctor sent round two nurses from the hospital—a day nurse and a night nurse. He's in a bad way. You should see how thin 'e's got."
"Will he—get well?" inquired his son, with a jerk.
"Let soap so," said the woman. She refilled her glass, and emptied the bottle. "Have some champagne?"
He shook his head. "I wish he'd wake."
"You better had," she rejoined; "there's nothing like champagne when you're feeling low." The waiter reappeared with the sweets. "Bring up another bottle," she said, "and a green chartrooze. I don't think I'll take any of those. What's that one—the floppy thing with the pink-and-white stuff on it?"