“Look here, I’m not drunk,” Ivor found sudden energy to protest. “But I’ve got pneumonia, if that’s any good to you....”
“All I want to know is,” he said weakly, “whether you think Mr. Trevor’s in or out? You say you were his valet, so you ought to know.”
The man listened, with head aside.
“I hear a piano, sir. That ’ud be Mr. Trevor....”
It took Ivor a long time to get up to the third floor. He felt worse every second, it was hell to breathe. Doctors ought to be like pillar-boxes, he crossly thought, they ought to be at every corner. Most of them are red enough, but they’re not at every corner. They play bridge every evening.... Gerald would be annoyed with him, dear Gerald! But what could he do, he couldn’t be alone any more, he couldn’t bear it. He ought to be a man, of course.... Trevor’s door swayed before him, he couldn’t find the bell somehow, and so he banged on it with his fist. Where the deuce had he left his stick, the one Magdalen had given him?
3
“Hallo, Ivor!” Trevor’s voice said genially. He wasn’t annoyed to see him, then!... And then Trevor caught him. Ivor had crumpled up. Trevor, silently, almost carried him into his sitting-room. Ivor tried to explain, but it hurt him so to breathe.... Then he just managed to pull himself together, and stood up straight, and laughed weakly to see the hot-water bottle hanging from his hand. He waved it at Trevor.
“See that?...” he said faintly.
“I’m awfully sorry, Gerald, coming like this,” he said. “I’m——”
“You’re in a state, old boy. Take it easy for a moment.” Trevor’s voice was quiet and kind. He tried to help Ivor to the wide sofa just beside him, but Ivor still stood swaying.