I shall come round in a day or two, though, and give you a thorough overhauling.
I think you have pulled through the worst of this business now; you don't look quite so much like a death's head at a feast."
"Oh, I shall be all right soon, thanks.
Who's that--Galli?
I seem to have a collection of all the graces here to-night."
"I have come to stop the night with you."
"Nonsense!
I don't want anyone.
Go home, all the lot of you.
Even if the thing should come on again, you can't help me; I won't keep taking opium.
It's all very well once in a way."
"I'm afraid you're right," Riccardo said. "But that's not always an easy resolution to stick to."
The Gadfly looked up, smiling.
"No fear!
If I'd been going in for that sort of thing, I should have done it long ago."
"Anyway, you are not going to be left alone," Riccardo answered drily. "Come into the other room a minute, Galli; I want to speak to you.
Good-night, Rivarez; I'll look in to-morrow."
Martini was following them out of the room when he heard his name softly called. The Gadfly was holding out a hand to him.
"Thank you!"
"Oh, stuff!
Go to sleep."
When Riccardo had gone, Martini remained a few minutes in the outer room, talking with Galli.
As he opened the front door of the house he heard a carriage stop at the garden gate and saw a woman's figure get out and come up the path.
It was Zita, returning, evidently, from some evening entertainment.
He lifted his hat and stood aside to let her pass, then went out into the dark lane leading from the house to the Poggio Imperiale.
Presently the gate clicked and rapid footsteps came down the lane.
"Wait a minute!" she said.
When he turned back to meet her she stopped short, and then came slowly towards him, dragging one hand after her along the hedge.
There was a single street-lamp at the corner, and he saw by its light that she was hanging her head down as though embarrassed or ashamed.
"How is he?" she asked without looking up.
"Much better than he was this morning.
He has been asleep most of the day and seems less exhausted.
I think the attack is passing over."
She still kept her eyes on the ground. "Has it been very bad this time?"
"About as bad as it can well be, I should think."
"I thought so.
When he won't let me come into the room, that always means it's bad."
"Does he often have attacks like this?"
"That depends---- It's so irregular. Last summer, in Switzerland, he was quite well; but the winter before, when we were in Vienna, it was awful.
He wouldn't let me come near him for days together.
He hates to have me about when he's ill." She glanced up for a moment, and, dropping her eyes again, went on: "He always used to send me off to a ball, or concert, or something, on one pretext or another, when he felt it coming on. Then he would lock himself into his room.
I used to slip back and sit outside the door--he would have been furious if he'd known.
He'd let the dog come in if it whined, but not me.
He cares more for it, I think."
There was a curious, sullen defiance in her manner.
"Well, I hope it won't be so bad any more," said Martini kindly. "Dr. Riccardo is taking the case seriously in hand.
Perhaps he will be able to make a permanent improvement.
And, in any case, the treatment gives relief at the moment. But you had better send to us at once, another time.
He would have suffered very much less if we had known of it earlier.
Good-night!"