“Better?” I repeated, with a note of justified wrath in my voice, for the thought of the others all enjoying themselves, sitting at a good meal on proper chairs in a room out of the reach of fresh air, naturally upset me. Why had they not told me? Why, in the name of all that was dutiful, had _she_ not told me? “I thought you were asleep,” said she when I inquired what grounds she had for the omission. “So I was, but that----” “And I know you don’t like being disturbed when you are,” said she, lamely as I considered, for naturally it depends on what one is disturbed for--of course I would have got up if I had known. “I will not drink such stuff,” I said, pushing the cup away. “Why should I live on tepid water and butterless toast?” “But--didn’t you say you were ill?” she asked, pretending to be surprised. “I thought when one is ill----” “Kindly draw those curtains,” I said, for the crowd was straining every nerve to see and hear, “and remove this stuff. You had better,” I added, when the faces had been shut out, “return to your own breakfast. Do not trouble about me. Leave me here to be ill or not. It does not matter. You are my wife, and bound by law to love me, but I will make no demands on you. Leave me here alone, and return to your breakfast.” “But, Otto, I couldn’t stay in here with you before. The poor horse would never----” “I know, I know. Put the horse before your husband. Put anything and anybody before your husband. Leave him here alone. Do not trouble. Go back to your own, no doubt, excellent breakfast.” “But Otto, why are you so cross?” “Cross? When a man is ill and neglected, if he dare say a word he is cross. Take this stuff away. Go back to your breakfast. I, at least, am considerate, and do not desire your omelettes and other luxuries to become cold.” “It isn’t omelettes,” said Edelgard. “Why are you so unreasonable? Won’t you really drink this?” And again she held out the cup of straw-coloured tea. Then I turned my face to the wall, determined that nothing she could say or do should make me lose my temper. “Leave me,” was all I said, with a backward wave of the hand. She lingered a moment, as she had done in the morning, then went out. Somebody outside took the cup from her and helped her down the ladder, and a conviction that it was Jellaby caused such a wave of just anger to pass over me that, being now invisible to the crowd, I leaped out of my berth and began quickly and wrathfully to dress. Besides, as she opened the door a most attractive odour of I do not know what, but undoubtedly something to do with breakfast in the inn, had penetrated into my sick chamber. “’Ere ’e is,” said one of the many children in the crowd, when I emerged dressed from the caravan and prepared to descend the steps; “’ere’s ’im out of the bed.” I frowned. “Don’t ’e get up late?” said another. I frowned again. [Illustration: _“’Ere ’e is”_] “Don’t ’e look different now?” said a third. I deepened my frown.