“It was the heat. That always upsets me.”
Mr. Carey’s history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room.
“On the seventh of November, sir.”
Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information.
“But I eat well still, don’t I, Mrs. Foster?”
“Yes, sir, you’ve got a wonderful appetite.”
“I don’t seem to put on flesh though.”
Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia.
“It’s terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor’s bills.” He tinkled his bell again. “Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist’s bill.”
Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip.