Friday, the fifth. Evening.

During the following week the Home Secretary followed his usual routine. He had become more or less accustomed to the attacks of pain. If anything they occurred more often and with increasing severity. He told himself that the day after he had introduced his Bill, he would consult a doctor. Meanwhile he took three tablets of aspirin whenever the pain threatened to become unendurable, and grew more and more dispirited and wretched. The memory of Jane Harden’s letter lurked at the back of his thoughts, like a bad taste in the conscience.

His sister Ruth, an advanced hypochondriac, with the persistence of a missionary, continually pressed upon him strange boluses, pills and draughts. She made a practice of calling on him after dinner armed with chemist’s parcels and a store of maddening condolences and counsels. On Friday night he retreated to his study, begging his wife to tell Ruth, if she appeared, that he was extremely busy, and not to be interrupted. His wife looked at him for a moment.

“I shall ask Nash,” she said, “to say we are both out.”

He paused and then said uncomfortably:

“I don’t think I quite like— ”

“I too,” said his wife, “find myself bored by Ruth.”

“Still, Cicely — after all she is exceedingly kind. Perhaps it would be better— ”

“You will see her then?”

“No, damn it, I won’t.”

“Very well, Derek. I’ll tell Nash. Has your pain been worrying you lately?”