“Do you suppose I should have slept one wink if I’d thought Sissie wasn’t coming home?”

“Yes, I do.  The death of Nelson wouldn’t keep you awake.  And now either I shall be late at the office, or else I shall go without my breakfast.  I think you might have wakened me.”

Mrs. Prohack, munching the cake despite all her anxieties, replied in a peculiar tone: 

“What does it matter if you are late for the office?”

Mr. Prohack reflected that all women were alike in a lack of conscience where the public welfare was concerned.  He was rich:  therefore he was entitled to neglect his duty to the nation!  A pleasing argument!  Mr. Prohack sat up, and Mrs. Prohack had a full view of his face for the first time that morning.

“Arthur,” she exclaimed, absolutely and in an instant forgetting both cake and daughter.  “You’re ill!”

He thought how agreeable it was to have a wife who was so marvellously absorbed in his being.  There was something uncanny, something terrible, in it.

“Oh, no I’m not,” he said.  “I swear I’m not.  I’m very tired, but I’m not ill.  Get out of my way.”

“But your face is as yellow as a cheese,” protested Eve, frightened.

“It may be,” said Mr. Prohack.

“You won’t get up.”

“I shall get up.”

Eve snatched her hand-mirror from the dressing-table, and gave it to him with a menacing gesture.  He admitted to himself that the appearance of his face was perhaps rather alarming at first sight; but really he did not feel ill; he only felt tired.

“It’s nothing.  Liver.”  He made a move to emerge from the bed.  “Exercise is all I want.”

He saw Eve’s lips tremble; he saw tears hanging in her eyes; these phenomena induced in him the sensation of having somehow committed a solecism or a murder.  He withdrew the move to emerge.  She was hurt and desperate.  He at once knew himself defeated.  He thought how annoying it was to have a woman in the house who was so marvellously absorbed in his being.  She was wrong; but her unreasoning desperation triumphed over his calm sagacity.

“Telephone for Dr. Veiga,” said Mrs. Prohack to Machin, for whom she had rung.  “V-e-i-g-a.  Bruton Street.  He’s in the book.  And ask him to come along as soon as he can to see Mr. Prohack.”

Now Mr. Prohack had heard of, but never seen, Dr. Veiga.  He had more than once listened to the Portuguese name on Eve’s lips, and the man had been mentioned more than once at the club.  Mr. Prohack knew that he was, if not a foreigner, of foreign descent, and hence he did not like him.  Mr. Prohack took kindly to foreign singers and cooks, but not to foreign doctors.  Moreover he had doubts about the fellow’s professional qualifications.  Therefore he strongly resented his wife’s most singular and startling order to Machin, and as soon as Machin had gone he expressed himself: 

“Anyway,” he said curtly, after several exchanges, “I shall see my own doctor, if I see any doctor at all—­which is doubtful.”