Jaffe came out in his pyjamas.
"It's all right, all right," he signalled as he saw me about to overturn the breakfast table. "As right as can be expected."
"Can I go in?"
"Not yet.
The maid's there now.
Washing and all that."
I poured him some coffee.
He blinked in the sunlight and turned to Koster.
"I ought to be grateful to you really.
It has at least given me one day in the country."
"But you could do it often," said Koster. "Leave one evening and return the next."
"Could, could," answered Jaffe. "Haven't you ever observed how we live in an age of self-persecution?
What a lot of things there are one might do that one doesn't—and yet why, God only knows.
Work has become so tremendously important to-day, because so many have none, I suppose, that it kills everything else.
How lovely it is here!
Yet it's years since I have seen it.
I have two cars, a ten-roomed house and money to burn . . . and what do I do with it?
What is it all to this summer morning in the country?
Work, work, work . . . an abominable obsession—and always under the illusion it will be different later.
And it never is different.
Queer, isn't it, that anyone should do that with his life?"
"A doctor, it seems to me, is one of the few who do know what they are living for," said I. "Take a bank clerk, for instance."
"My dear friend," replied Jaffe, "it's a mistake to think that all men have the same tastes."
"Yes," said Koster. "But neither do men get jobs in accord with their tastes." "True," replied Jaffe. "It's all very difficult." He nodded to me. "Now.
But easy—no touching and no letting her talk. . . ."
She lay among the pillows, helpless, as one stricken.
Her face had lost its colour; blue, deep shadows were under her eyes and her lips were pale.
Only her eyes were big and shining.
Too big and shining . . .
I took up her hand. It was cold and limp.
"Pat, old man," said I awkwardly and was about to sit down beside her when by the window I caught sight of the dough-faced maid staring at me inquisitively. "Go, can't you?" said I with annoyance.
"I have to draw the curtains," she replied.
"Very well, do so then, and go."
She tugged the yellow curtains over the window. And still she did not go. She set about slowly fastening the curtains together with a pin.
"Look," said I, "this isn't a play.
Hop it, quick."
She turned on me haughtily.
"I'll go when I have pinned them—and not then perhaps."
"Did you ask her to do it?" I asked Pat.
She nodded.
"Does the light hurt you?" I asked.
She shook her head.
"It's better you shouldn't see me too clearly to-day . . ."
"Pat," said I horrified, "you're not to talkl But if that's all. . . ."
I opened the door and the maid vanished at last.
I went back.
I was no longer disconcerted.
I was even quite glad for the maid; it had brought me safely over the first moment.
For it was damnable business to see Pat lying there like that.
I sat beside the bed.