But for the time being Eve was beyond the world of worries, lost in the phantasies of fever, dazed by day, and delirious at night. She was bad, very bad, and even the bored and harassed middle-class doctor allowed that she was in danger, and might need a second nurse. But at the end of the second week the disease died out of her, and she became sane and cool once more, content to lie there in a state of infinite languor, to think of nothing, and do nothing but breathe and eat and sleep. She found flowers on the table beside her bed. John Parfit had sent them. He had discovered that she was seriously ill, and he had been calling twice a day to inquire. Every evening a bunch of flowers, roses, violets, or carnations, was brought up to her, John Parfit leaving them at Bosnia Road on his way home from the City. Eve would lie and look at the flowers without realising all that they implied. Illness is often very merciful to those who have cares and worries. It dulls the consciousness, and brooking no rival, absorbs the sufferer into a daze of drowsiness and dreams. The body, in its feverish reaction to neutralise the poison of disease, is busy within itself, and the mind is drugged and left to sleep. As her normal self returned to her, Eve began to cast her eyes upon the life that had been broken off so abruptly, and she discovered, to her surprise, that the things that had worried her no longer seemed to matter. She felt numb, lethargic, too tired to react to worries. She knew now that she had not been far from death, and the great shadow still lay near to her, blotting out all the lesser shadows, so that they were lost in it. All the additional expense that she was incurring, the presence of the nurse, John Parfit’s flowers, Mrs. Buss’s grumbling voice, all these phenomena seemed outside the circle of reality. She recognised them, without reacting to them. So benumbed was she that the idea of spending so much money did not frighten her. She managed to write a cheque, and the nurse cashed it for her when she went for her daily walk. Mrs. Buss’s accounts were asked for and sent up, and Eve did not feel one qualm of distress when she glanced at the figures and understood that her landlady was penalising her mercilessly for being ill. She paid Mrs. Buss, and turned her attention to the doctor. “You won’t mind my mentioning it, but I shall be very grateful if you will let me know what I owe you.” He was a thin man, with a head like an ostrich’s, and a jerky, harassed manner. Struggle was written deep all over his face and person. His wife inked out the shiny places on his black coat, and he walked everywhere, and did not keep a carriage. “That’s all right, that’s all right!” “But I am serious. You see, with a limited income, one likes to meet things as they come.” “Oh, well, if it will please you. But I haven’t quite finished with you yet.” “I know. But you won’t forget?”