Mr Orgreave, forgetful of the company, was deciphering the "British
Medical Journal" in the twilight of the afternoon. His doctor had lent
him this esoteric periodical because there was an article therein on
influenza, and Mr Orgreave was very much interested in influenza.
"You remember the influenza of '89, Edwin?" he asked suddenly, looking
over the top of the paper.
"Do I?" said Edwin. "Yes, I fancy I do remember a sort of epidemic."
"I should think so indeed!" Janet murmured.
"Well," continued Mr Orgreave, "I'm like you. I thought it was an
epidemic. But it seems it wasn't. It was a pandemic. What's a
pandemic, now?"
"Give it up," said Edwin.
"You might just look in the dictionary--Ogilvie there," and while Edwin
ferreted in the bookcase, Mr Orgreave proceeded, reading: "`The
pandemic of 1889 has been followed by epidemics, and by endemic
prevalence in some areas!' So you see how many _demics_ there are! I
suppose they'd call it an epidemic we've got in the town now."
His voice had changed on the last sentence. He had meant to be a little
facetious about the Greek words; but it was the slowly prepared and
rather exasperating facetiousness of an ageing man, and he had dropped
it listlessly, as though he himself had perceived this. Influenza had
weakened and depressed him; he looked worn, and even outworn. But not
influenza alone was responsible for his appearance. The incredible had
happened: Osmond Orgreave was getting older. His bald head was not the
worst sign of his declension, nor the thickened veins in his hands, nor
the deliberation of his gestures, nor even the unsprightliness of his
wit. The worst sign was that he was losing his terrific zest in life;
his palate for the intense savour of it was dulled. In this last attack
of influenza he had not fought against the onset of the disease. He had
been wise; he had obeyed his doctor, and laid down his arms at once; and
he showed no imprudent anxiety to resume them. Yes, a changed Osmond!
He was still one of the most industrious professional men in Bursley;
but he worked from habit, not from passion.
When Edwin had found `pandemic' in Ogilvie, Mr Orgreave wanted to see
the dictionary for himself, and then he wanted the Greek dictionary,
which could not be discovered, and then he began to quote further from
the "British Medical Journal."
"`It may be said that there are three well-marked types of the disease,
attacking respectively the respiratory, the digestive, and the nervous
system.' Well, I should say I'd had 'em all three. `As a rule the
attack--'"
Thus he went on. Janet made a _moue_ at Edwin, who returned the signal.
These youngsters were united in good-natured forbearing condescension
towards Mr Orgreave. The excellent old fellow was prone to be tedious;
they would accept his tediousness, but they would not disguise from each
other their perception of it.
"I hear the Vicar of Saint Peter's is very ill indeed," said Mrs
Orgreave, blandly interrupting her husband.
"What? Heve? With influenza?"
"Yes. I wouldn't tell you before because I thought it might pull you
down again."
Mr Orgreave, in silence, stared at the immense fire.
"What about this tea, Janet?" he demanded.
Janet rang the bell.
"Oh! I'd have done that!" said Edwin, as soon as she had done it.
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