Clara is sick.
“I find nothing serious,” says the Doctor. “A bad bronchial cough, a chest none too strong but unaffected. Somewhat run-down—and nervous.” Fanny knew better—and worse.
Clara stays in bed. The House moves on. But with six years done, Fanny can see a difference: and in no fact more clearly than that Clara is sick.
—She is wearing out! She who is not thirty. The House is wearing out. I?
She brought her friend to her own room on the Fourth floor, where it was quieter, where they could be better together. The Fourth floor was a hush over the hard accent of the House.
“I am happy here,” smiled Clara. “It’s great fun being sick—and having you nurse me in your own dear place.”
Mark came little: came less. Nobody cared. Clara and Fanny thought nothing of that. But Clara got no better. There she was weak ... no worse ... but also no better.
“The House wears away,” thought Fanny ... and tried not to think of that. “What does that matter?” But the House went on.
Fanny shopped and ruled and entertained. There was the hush above that grew: there was the wonted accent of their world below, wearing, wearing....
“I am afraid perhaps, I’m just lazy,” Clara said. “Doc don’t think I’m sick. I’d better get up—“