“Really!” muttered Swithin; “what's that to you?” He appeared at dinner that night, but fell asleep over his coffee. Neither Traquair nor James asked him any further question, nor did they allude to Salzburg; and during the four days which concluded the stay in Venice Swithin went about with his head up, but his eyes half-closed like a dazed man. Only after they had taken ship at Genoa did he show signs of any healthy interest in life, when, finding that a man on board was perpetually strumming, he locked the piano up and pitched the key into the sea. That winter in London he behaved much as usual, but fits of moroseness would seize on him, during which he was not pleasant to approach. One evening when he was walking with a friend in Piccadilly, a girl coming from a side-street accosted him in German. Swithin, after staring at her in silence for some seconds, handed her a five-pound note, to the great amazement of his friend; nor could he himself have explained the meaning of this freak of generosity. Of Rozsi he never heard again.... This, then, was the substance of what he remembered as he lay ill in bed. Stretching out his hand he pressed the bell. His valet appeared, crossing the room like a cat; a Swede, who had been with Swithin many years; a little man with a dried face and fierce moustache, morbidly sharp nerves, and a queer devotion to his master. Swithin made a feeble gesture. “Adolf,” he said, “I'm very bad.” “Yes, sir!” “Why do you stand there like a cow?” asked Swithin; “can't you see I'm very bad?” “Yes, sir!” The valet's face twitched as though it masked the dance of obscure emotions. “I shall feel better after dinner. What time is it?” “Five o'clock.” “I thought it was more. The afternoons are very long.” “Yes, sir!” Swithin sighed, as though he had expected the consolation of denial. “Very likely I shall have a nap. Bring up hot water at half-past six and shave me before dinner.” The valet moved towards the door. Swithin raised himself. “What did Mr. James say to you?” “He said you ought to have another doctor; two doctors, he said, better than one. He said, also, he would look in again on his way 'home.'” Swithin grunted, “Umph! What else did he say?” “He said you didn't take care of yourself.” Swithin glared. “Has anybody else been to see me?” The valet turned away his eyes. “Mrs. Thomas Forsyte came last Monday fortnight.” “How long have I been ill?” “Five weeks on Saturday.” “Do you think I'm very bad?” Adolf's face was covered suddenly with crow's-feet. “You have no business to ask me question like that! I am not paid, sir, to answer question like that.” Swithin said faintly: “You're a peppery fool! Open a bottle of champagne!” Adolf took a bottle of champagne—from a cupboard and held nippers to it. He fixed his eyes on Swithin. “The doctor said—” “Open the bottle!” “It is not—” “Open the bottle—or I give you warning.”