“She tried to tell me about her pain,” Ivor said.
“Ah, yes!” Black said thoughtfully. “It interests her....”
“It hurts her,” said Ivor. “Can’t you do anything about it, Black?”
“We do,” Black assured him. “We give her a piqure now and then, and she sleeps all right. But we can’t give her piqures all the time.” He stood so still while he talked, like a chubby little image.
“But how long does this pain last?” Ivor asked impatiently. “These things that she says are sticking inside her?... It seems awful.”
“It is,” Black agreed. “It lasts three more days. Then everything will be all right. Assure you. 65 per cent. chance now. Only 10 per cent. chance yesterday. You didn’t know....”
“Well, must be going now,” Black said briskly. “Don’t worry, Marlay—everything all right except the pain, and that will be. If she was only delirious, it would help her forget it a bit. But her mind’s amazingly clear—too clear—she’s got a strong mind, you know. I asked her this morning if the doctor pulling faces at her would make her delirious, and she asked me how I could ‘bear my life, inflicting pain on people?’ I said I preferred golf, and that life was pretty rotten all ways, now. Can I drop you anywhere? I’m going to St. George’s....”
“I think I’ll walk, you know.... Thanks, Black.”
As they were taking their hats in the hall Ian Black said:—
“Rodney West’s coming to dine to-night. You might come, if you like. Eight-thirty. He’s getting rather Germanophile in reaction to the French, and we might drive it out of him. No good reacting from idiocy to idiocy. And I’ll have some more news for you by then, probably....” So of course Ivor dined in New Cavendish Street.