DOCTOR (laying a soothing hand on him).  A dream, my dear lord, only a dream.

STATESMAN.  Doctor, imagine my feelings!  My sense of ridicule was keen; but keener my sense of the injustice—­not to be allowed to know why the whole world was thus making mock of me.  For this was in the nature of a public celebration, its malignity was organised and national; a new fifth of November had been sprung upon the calendar.  Around me I saw the emblematic watchwords of the great party I had once led to triumph:  “Imperium et Libertas,” “Peace with Honour,” “England shall reign where’er the sun,” and other mottoes of a like kind; and on them also the floral disease had spread itself.  The air grew thick and heavy with its sick-room odour.  Doctor, I could have vomited.

DOCTOR.  Yes, yes; a touch of biliousness, I don’t doubt.

STATESMAN.  With a sudden flash of insight—­“This,” I said to myself, “is my Day of Judgment.  Here I stand, judged by my fellow-countrymen, for the failures and shortcomings of my political career.  The good intentions with which my path was strewn are now turned to my reproach.  But why do they take this particular form?  Why—­why primroses?”

DOCTOR.  “The primrose way” possibly?

STATESMAN.  Ah!  That occurred to me.  But has it, indeed, been a primrose way that I have trodden so long and so painfully?  I think not.  I cannot so accuse myself.  But suppose the Day of Judgment which Fate reserves for us were fundamentally this:  the appraisement of one’s life and character—­not by the all-seeing Eye of Heaven (before which I would bow), but by the vindictively unjust verdict of the people one has tried to serve—­the judgment not of God, but of public opinion.  That is a judgment of which all who strive for power must admit the relevancy!

DOCTOR.  You distress yourself unnecessarily, dear lord.  Your reputation is safe from detraction now.

STATESMAN.  With urgency I set my mind to meet the charge.  If I could understand the meaning of that yellow visitation, then I should no longer have to fear that I was going mad!

(At this point the door is discreetly opened, and the Housekeeper, mild, benign, but inflexible, ENTERS, carrying a cup and toast-rack upon a tray.)

HOUSEKEEPER.  I beg pardon, my lord; but I think your lordship ought to have your beef-tea now.

STATESMAN.  Yes, yes, Mrs. Manson; come in.

DOCTOR.  You are right, Mrs. Manson; he ought.

HOUSEKEEPER (placing the tray on a small stand). 
Where will you have it, my lord?

STATESMAN.  In my inside, Mrs. Manson—­presently—­he, he!

DOCTOR.  Now, let me take your pulse...Yes, yes.  Pretty good, you know.

(Mrs. Manson stands respectfully at attention with interrogation in her eye.)

STATESMAN.  Yes, you may bring me my cap now.
(Then to the Doctor).  I generally sleep after this.