“Only fairly good,” replied Mr. Romaine, and then went on with great seriousness to describe a multitude of trifling symptoms, such as any imaginative person can conjure up at any moment.
“The fact is,—to be perfectly candid with you,”—said Chessingham, who was a conscientious man, “if you allow yourself to dwell upon these trifling ailments they will entail real suffering upon you. Try and forget about your stiff shoulder, and your neuralgic headache, and that sort of thing.”
“But my dear fellow,” answered Mr. Romaine, with a flash of humor in his black eyes, “you know it is my infirmity to exaggerate my aches and pains. Last night, for what I acknowledge was a mere trifle, I actually lay in my bed and groaned.” This was for Bridge’s benefit, who was putting on Mr. Romaine’s immaculate boots at that moment.
Chessingham, however, did not know exactly what to make of Mr. Romaine’s statement. His practised eye saw that something was the matter. But if Mr. Romaine refused to tell the doctor whom he hired to take care of his health what ailed him, the doctor was not to blame. Chessingham went back to his part of the house, much puzzled and deeply annoyed.
“Do you know,” he said to his wife, “I doubt very much if I did a wise thing in accepting Mr. Romaine’s offer to stay with him. My object, of saving enough from my salary to start me in London, will be attained. But suppose Mr. Romaine should die of some disease that he has concealed from me—my professional reputation would be hurt.”
Gladys said some comforting words, and told him about Mr. Romaine’s plans for buying an estate in England, the Prince’s Gate house, the impending ball, etc. At every word she said, Chessingham looked more and more gloomy.
“Very bad, very bad,” he said. “Worse and worse. He must be very ill, indeed, if he thinks it necessary to talk that way.”
Gladys laughed at Chessingham’s interpretation of Mr. Romaine’s remarks, and reminded him of his oft-repeated prediction that Mr. Romaine would live to bury all of them.
“It is simply the same old puzzle,” he said at last, impatiently. “I thought heretofore that nothing ailed him except his diabolically ingenious imagination. Now, I believe that everything ails him—but I cannot tell.”
The day passed on with leaden feet to Mr. Romaine, sitting, suffering and smiling, in his easy-chair. At six o’clock, he called for Bridge to dress him for the evening as usual. Bridge, thoroughly frightened, turned pale at this.