But Aaron only became more gloomily withheld, retracting from life.  And Lilly began to be really troubled.  He got a friend to sit with the patient in the afternoon, whilst he himself went out and arranged to sleep in Aaron’s room, at his lodging.

The next morning, when he came in, he found the patient lying as ever, in a sort of heap in the bed.  Nurse had had to lift him up and hold him up again.  And now Aaron lay in a sort of semi-stupor of fear, frustrated anger, misery and self-repulsion:  a sort of interlocked depression.

The doctor frowned when he came.  He talked with the nurse, and wrote another prescription.  Then he drew Lilly away to the door.

“What’s the matter with the fellow?” he said.  “Can’t you rouse his spirit?  He seems to be sulking himself out of life.  He’ll drop out quite suddenly, you know, if he goes on like this.  Can’t you rouse him up?”

“I think it depresses him partly that his bowels won’t work.  It frightens him.  He’s never been ill in his life before,” said Lilly.

“His bowels won’t work if he lets all his spirit go, like an animal dying of the sulks,” said the doctor impatiently.  “He might go off quite suddenly—­dead before you can turn round—­”

Lilly was properly troubled.  Yet he did not quite know what to do.  It was early afternoon, and the sun was shining into the room.  There were daffodils and anemones in a jar, and freezias and violets.  Down below in the market were two stalls of golden and blue flowers, gay.

“The flowers are lovely in the spring sunshine,” said Lilly.  “I wish I were in the country, don’t you?  As soon as you are better we’ll go.  It’s been a terrible cold, wet spring.  But now it’s going to be nice.  Do you like being in the country?”

“Yes,” said Aaron.

He was thinking of his garden.  He loved it.  Never in his life had he been away from a garden before.

“Make haste and get better, and we’ll go.”

“Where?” said Aaron.

“Hampshire.  Or Berkshire.  Or perhaps you’d like to go home?  Would you?”

Aaron lay still, and did not answer.

“Perhaps you want to, and you don’t want to,” said Lilly.  “You can please yourself, anyhow.”

There was no getting anything definite out of the sick man—­his soul seemed stuck, as if it would not move.

Suddenly Lilly rose and went to the dressing-table.

“I’m going to rub you with oil,” he said.  “I’m going to rub you as mothers do their babies whose bowels don’t work.”

Aaron frowned slightly as he glanced at the dark, self-possessed face of the little man.

“What’s the good of that?” he said irritably.  “I’d rather be left alone.”

“Then you won’t be.”