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‘I think you look stronger than you did last summer.’
‘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 infor-
mation.
‘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.
‘That’s only one month. I was wondering if as you’re
doctoring yourself you couldn’t get me the drugs cheaper.
I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then
there’s the postage.’
Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he