“If you ask me,” she began in a curiously stealthy tone, “I never like May for my patients.”

“May?” Terence repeated.

“It may be a fancy, but I don’t like to see anybody fall ill in May,” she continued.  “Things seem to go wrong in May.  Perhaps it’s the moon.  They say the moon affects the brain, don’t they, Sir?”

He looked at her but he could not answer her; like all the others, when one looked at her she seemed to shrivel beneath one’s eyes and become worthless, malicious, and untrustworthy.

She slipped past him and disappeared.

Though he went to his room he was unable even to take his clothes off.  For a long time he paced up and down, and then leaning out of the window gazed at the earth which lay so dark against the paler blue of the sky.  With a mixture of fear and loathing he looked at the slim black cypress trees which were still visible in the garden, and heard the unfamiliar creaking and grating sounds which show that the earth is still hot.  All these sights and sounds appeared sinister and full of hostility and foreboding; together with the natives and the nurse and the doctor and the terrible force of the illness itself they seemed to be in conspiracy against him.  They seemed to join together in their effort to extract the greatest possible amount of suffering from him.  He could not get used to his pain, it was a revelation to him.  He had never realised before that underneath every action, underneath the life of every day, pain lies, quiescent, but ready to devour; he seemed to be able to see suffering, as if it were a fire, curling up over the edges of all action, eating away the lives of men and women.  He thought for the first time with understanding of words which had before seemed to him empty:  the struggle of life; the hardness of life.  Now he knew for himself that life is hard and full of suffering.  He looked at the scattered lights in the town beneath, and thought of Arthur and Susan, or Evelyn and Perrott venturing out unwittingly, and by their happiness laying themselves open to suffering such as this.  How did they dare to love each other, he wondered; how had he himself dared to live as he had lived, rapidly and carelessly, passing from one thing to another, loving Rachel as he had loved her?  Never again would he feel secure; he would never believe in the stability of life, or forget what depths of pain lie beneath small happiness and feelings of content and safety.  It seemed to him as he looked back that their happiness had never been so great as his pain was now.  There had always been something imperfect in their happiness, something they had wanted and had not been able to get.  It had been fragmentary and incomplete, because they were so young and had not known what they were doing.