'Why do you sneer at everything, Mr Farwell?' said Victoria. 'Can't you see anything in life to make it worth while?'
'No, I cannot say I do. The pursuit of a living debars me from the enjoyments that make living worth while. But never mind me: I am over without having bloomed. I brought you here to talk of you, not of me.'
'Of me, Mr Farwell?' asked Victoria. 'What do you want to know?'
Farwell leant over the table, toyed with the sugar and helped himself to a piece. Then without looking at her:
'What's the matter with you, Victoria?' he asked.
'Matter with me? What do you mean?' said Victoria, too disturbed to notice the use of her Christian name.
The man scrutinised her carefully. 'You're ill,' he said. 'Don't protest. You're thin; there are purple pockets under your eyes; your underlip is twisted with pain, and you limp.'
Victoria felt a spasm of anger. There was still in her the ghost of vanity. But she looked at Farwell before answering; there was gentleness in his eyes.
'Well,' she said slowly, 'if you must know, perhaps there is something wrong. Pains.'
'Where?' he asked.