"As a matter of fact," said the doctor, "you ought not to speak at
all. But that's asking too much. So let it go at this--not a word more
than is necessary. Good-bye.",
He left the room and I lay back pondering on his instructions. How
many words were really necessary?
The nurse soon after entered.
"So the doctor's gone," she said.
Obviously it wasn't necessary to say Yes, since the room was empty
save for me and her; so I made no reply.
She went to the window and looked out. The sky was blue and the
sunshine was brilliant.
"It's a fine day," she said.
No, I thought, you don't catch me there; and said nothing. But I
reflected that yesterday I might myself have made the same inane
remark as she.
"Would you like the paper?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, and then almost regretted it, for having waited nearly
fifty years for yesterday's news surely I could wait longer. Still,
the paper would help to pass the time.
While she was fetching it I remembered a dream of last night which I
had intended to tell her this morning.
But why do so? A dream is of no account even to the dreamer. Still,
the recital might have made her laugh. But why should laughter be
bothered about?
The nurse brought the paper and I signified Thank you.
"I'll leave you for a while now," she said; "The fire's all right.
Your drink's by the bed. You'll ring if you want anything."
All these things I knew. My drink is always beside the bed; the bell
is the natural communication between me and the house. What a foolish
chatterbox the woman was! I nodded and she went out.
On her return an hour or so later she asked, "Is there anything in the
paper?"
Before answering I examined this question. What did it mean? It did
not mean, Are the pages this morning absolutely blank, for a change?
It meant, Is there a good murder? Is any very important person dead?
In reply I handed the paper to her.
Instead of reading it she began a long account of her morning's
walk. She told me where she had been; whom she had seen; whom she
had thought she had seen and then found that it was some one else;
what somebody had said. Not a syllable mattered, I now realised;
but yesterday I should have joined in the talk, asked questions,
encouraged her in her foolishness.
Just before lunch my brother and a guest came into the room and began
to talk about golf. My brother said that he had been round in 98. This
was his best since September, when he went round in 97. He described
his difficulties at the tenth hole.
It all seemed very idiotic to me, for the game was over and done with.
Why rake it up?
The guest said that he had lost two balls, one of which was expensive.
His driving had been good, but in the short game he had been weak.
He could never quite make up his mind whether he putted best with a
gun-metal putter or a wooden one.
My brother asked me if I remembered that long drive of his two years
ago?