Chapter 4

[He gives her a suspicious look, but to get away fromMrs. Mackbreaks out angrily.

Dickie.

Senseless extravagance I call it. Now look here, here’s thirty-five pounds for a dress in blue cloth—absurd price to pay—on 9th of October.

Penelope.

Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton.

Dickie.

How d’you mean, Duke of York’s Stakes at Kempton?

Penelope.

I just happen to remember they were on that day because Madame Claude was so surprised to see me. It was only by the merest chance that she hadn’t gone to the races herself.

Dickie.

But what on earth put it into your head to go and buy a blue cloth dress?

Penelope.

[Sweetly.] Well, you see, darling, it was the day of the first operation that was performed on Mrs. Mack. And you were away all day, and I felt awfully depressed and lonely. And I knew how anxious you were, and it made me anxious, so I just went and ordered a blue cloth to cheer myself up a bit.

[Dickielooks at her for a moment, then looks down at the bill, is about to speak, but says nothing.Penelopewatches him.

Dickie.

[Suddenly.] And look here, on the 13th of October there’s an ermine stole and a muff.

Penelope.

Yes, that was the second operation on poor Mrs. Mack.

Dickie.

I say, I think it’s a bit thick.

Penelope.

Well, I had to do something while you were away. And it made me feel so miserable to see everybody driving off with race glasses to Liverpool Street.

Dickie.

I beg your pardon.

Penelope.

You see, the 13th of October was the Cesarewitch.

Dickie.

And I suppose all the others are to be explained in the same way. [Looking at a bill.] October 22.

Penelope.

Sandown Races.

[Dickielooks through the bill crossly, but does not speak.

[Innocently.] I wonder why you always had your operations on the same day as an important race meeting.

Dickie.

I suppose you think it odd?

Penelope.

A little.

Dickie.

Well, it isn’t odd at all. It’s one of old Peter Marsden’s cranky ways. I told you it was Peter Marsden who did the operations, didn’t I? [Penelopenods.] The fact is, he’s simply mad on racing. And he’s lost such a pot of money that he always fixes an important operation for the same day as a race meeting so that he absolutely won’t be able to go to it.

Penelope.

Funny old thing.

[Dickielooks up suspiciously.

[With a laugh.] Peter Marsden, not you, darling.

Dickie.

Now look here, Pen, we’ll say no more about these bills. I’ll pay them this time....

Penelope.

I knew you would.

Dickie.

But there must be no more of them.

Penelope.

I really don’t know why you should make such a fuss. After all, you’ve been earning simply heaps and heaps of money with Mrs. Mack.

Dickie.

We mustn’t count our chickens before they’re hatched. I haven’t had a penny out of her yet.

Penelope.

But now that she’s going away you can send in your bill.

Dickie.

Oh, I couldn’t possibly. It would kill her.

Penelope.

Don’t you think you might risk it?

Dickie.

I think you’re awfully heartless, Pen. You forget that I’m very much attached to the old lady. I look upon her as a friend as well as a patient.

Penelope.

Perhaps she’ll leave you something in her will. We want a new electric brougham, don’t we?

Dickie.

Oh, I shouldn’t accept it. I have the strongest feeling against doctors getting legacies from their patients.

Penelope.

Well, you’ll be able to charge at least a hundred and fifty pounds for taking her to Paris.

Dickie.

[With a start.] Pen!

Penelope.

Oh, you made me jump.

Dickie.

You’re not proposing to buy anything more?

Penelope.

Well, darling, I know that when I get up to-morrow morning and you’re not here, I shall feel dreadfully lonely and depressed.

Dickie.

[Interrupting.] Have your sainted mother to stay with you.

Penelope.

And it’s struck me that I simply haven’t got a hat I can wear.

Dickie.

[Sternly.] Penelope.

Penelope.

[Persuasively.] It’ll make my frocks last so much longer if I have some nice hats. You see, you ring the changes, and people think you have a new gown on.

Dickie.

And may I venture to inquire how many hats you’ll want to overcome your depression?

Penelope.

[Decidedly.] Three.

Dickie.

I never heard anything so preposterous.

Penelope.

Now look here, Dickie, I’m willing to meet you half way; I promise you they shan’t cost more than five pounds each. You can afford that out of the hundred and fifty.

Dickie.

The fact is, Pen, that Mrs. Mack is more a friendthan a patient, and she’s not so well to do as I thought. I’m proposing to make no charge for accompanying her to Paris.

Penelope.

[Quite firmly.] Oh, no, Dickie, I won’t hear of it. You’ve got a wife to think of—if you died to-morrow I should be totally unprovided for. You have no right to be quixotic. It’s not fair to me.

[Dickieis just going to answer whenPeytoncomes in.

Peyton.

A lady wishes to see you, sir.

Dickie.

[Irritably.] At this hour?

Peyton.

It’s Mrs. Watson, sir.

Dickie.

Oh, yes, I know. Show her in.

[ExitPeyton.

Dickie.

Thank heaven, there’s somebody. I’ll get a few guineas out of her at all events. [Looking at his case book.] Four visits. That’ll be five guineas. By Jove, I want them.

Penelope.

What’s the matter with her?

Dickie.

I don’t know, but I’m pretending I do. And she probably won’t find out.

Penelope.

I’ll leave you. I must just telephone to some one.

[She goes out.Dickiewalks up and down irritably. WhenMrs. Watsonappears he at once puts on his professional manner, and is very bland and affable.Mrs. Watsonis a little, old lady in black.

Dickie.

Well, Mrs. Watson?

Mrs. Watson.

You mustn’t mind my coming so late. I know you don’t see any one after five, but I’m going away.

Dickie.

I’m delighted to see you. I promise you that.

Mrs. Watson.

I’m starting for the Riviera with my daughter to-morrow, and I thought I’d like to see you again before I went.

Dickie.

Of course. And how have you been getting on?

Mrs. Watson.

[With the keenest satisfaction.] Oh! I don’t get on. I never get better.

Dickie.

Have you been taking your medicine regularly?

Mrs. Watson.

[Cheerfully.] Yes; but it doesn’t do me any good.

Dickie.

Let’s try your knee jerks, shall we?

[Mrs. Watsoncrosses one leg over the other, andDickietaps below the knee; the leg is slightly jerked up.

Dickie.

That seems right enough.

Mrs. Watson.

Sir Benjamin Broadstairs tried everything, and he couldn’t cure me; and then I went to Sir William Wilson, and he told me not to do any of the things that Sir Benjamin Broadstairs told me to do, and I got worse and worse!

Dickie.

You seem uncommonly cheerful about it.

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve been to every doctor in London, and they all say I’m a wonderful case. I like being examined by doctors, and they take such an interest in me. The hours and hours they’ve spent over me. I cannever be grateful enough for all the kindness I’ve had from them.

Dickie.

It’s very nice of you to say so. I think I’ll try you on something else to-day.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh! make it nice and strong; won’t you, doctor?

Dickie.

You seem to like your medicine with some body in it.

Mrs. Watson.

Well, I like taking medicines. It’s something to do; and now my daughter’s married I’m very much alone. I think I’ve taken every medicine in the Pharmacopœia, and they’ve none of them done me any good.

Dickie.

[Handing her a prescription.] Well, perhaps this will. You must take it three times a day before meals.

Mrs. Watson.

[Looking at it.] Oh! but I’ve had this before, Dr. O’Farrell. Sir Arthur Thomas gave me this only a few months ago.

Dickie.

Well, try it again. Perhaps you didn’t give it a fair chance.

Mrs. Watson.

I was reading in theLancetthe other day that aGerman doctor had discovered a new medicine which does nerve cases such a lot of good. I’m sure it’s the very thing for me.

Dickie.

What on earth were you reading theLancetfor?

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, I always read theLancetand theBritish Medical Journal. You see, my poor husband had to take them in for his practice.

Dickie.

[With a gasp.] You don’t mean to say your husband was a doctor?

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, I thought I told you that I was a doctor’s widow.

[Dickietries to master his agitation whileMrs. Watsonprattles on.

Mrs. Watson.

I can never bear to hear doctors spoken badly of. They never do me any good, but they’ve been kindness itself. I’ve only once been rudely treated, and that—if you’ll believe it—was by a mere nobody. I told him all my symptoms, and he said to me, Madam, can you eat? Yes, I said. I have breakfast in the morning and a little soup at eleven o’clock; and then I have lunch, and I always make a good tea, and I eat a little dinner at half-past seven, and before I go to bed I have some bread and milk. Thenhe said, Madam, can you sleep? Yes, I said, for an old woman I sleep very well; I sleep eight or nine hours regularly. Then he said, Madam, can you walk? Oh! yes, I said, I always make a point of walking four miles a day. Then he said, My opinion is that you’ve got nothing the matter with you at all. Good afternoon.

Dickie.

Fancy.

Mrs. Watson.

Well, I just looked him up and down, and I said to him, Sir, your opinion is not shared by Sir Benjamin Broadstairs, or Sir William Wilson, or Sir Arthur Thomas. And I didn’t even offer him a fee, but I just swept out of the room. [Archly.] You won’t give me that new medicine?

Dickie.

Honestly, I don’t think it’s quite what you want.

Mrs. Watson.

Very well. I expect you know best. And now I mustn’t take up any more of your time.

Dickie.

[Sarcastically.] Oh, it’s of no value, thank you.

Mrs. Watson.

[Persuasively.] Will you tell me what I owe you?

Dickie.

Oh, as a doctor’s widow, of course, I couldn’t dream of accepting a fee.

Mrs. Watson.

That is kind of you. But you must allow me to give you a little present.

Dickie.

[Rather feebly, but brightening up a little.] Oh, really, you know....

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve seen every doctor in London of any importance, and they’ve none of them charged me a penny, but I always make them a little present. I know that you doctors have to go out in all weathers, and you never wrap yourselves up. So I give them a woollen comforter.

[She takes out of her bag a large red woollen comforter.

Dickie.

[Blankly.] Oh, thank you very much.

Mrs. Watson.

I made it myself.

Dickie.

Did you!

Mrs. Watson.

And Sir Benjamin promised to wear his every winter. You’ll find it so warm.

Dickie.

I’m very grateful to you.

Mrs. Watson.

And now, good-bye, and thank you so much.

Dickie.

When you come back from the Riviera, you might do worse than consult Dr. Rogers. He lives just at the other end of the street, you know. He’s very good in cases like yours.

Mrs. Watson.

Thank you so much.

Dickie.

Good-bye.

[She goes out, and he shuts the door. He runs to the other and calls out.

Dickie.

Pen! Pen!

Penelope’s Voice.

Yes.

[There is a knock at the door.

Dickie.

[Irritably.] Come in.

[Mrs. Watsonenters.

Mrs. Watson.

I knew there was something I wanted to ask you particularly, and I nearly forgot it. Sir Benjamin Broadstairs said I ought never to eat anything but toast, and Sir William Wilson said he didn’t think toast was at all good for me, and I only ought to eat bread. Now, I wonder what I had better do?

Dickie.

[Seriously, as if he were deliberating.] Well, if I were you, I’d eat bread toasted only on one side.

Mrs. Watson.

Thank you so much. Good-bye. I hope you’ll like the comforter.

Dickie.

I’m sure I shall. Good-bye.

[She goes out again, andDickieshuts the door.

Dickie.

Pen! Pen!

[Penelopecomes in by the other door.

Penelope.

What is the matter?

[Dickiegoes up to her furiously with the comforter in his hands.

Dickie.

Look! That’s my fee! That!

Penelope.

It’s a woollen comforter.

Dickie.

Don’t be idiotic, Penelope. I can see it’s a woollen comforter.

Penelope.

But what’s the meaning of it?

Dickie.

She’s a doctor’s widow. Of course I couldn’t charge her anything. She kept it dark till to-day. I’ll tell you what, doctors’ widows oughtn’t to be allowed to survive their husbands.

Penelope.

Oh!

Dickie.

When you’re my widow, Pen, you go right up one side of Harley Street and then right down the other and see them all.

Penelope.

But supposing I’m not ill?

Dickie.

Hang it all, when you’ve lost me the least you can do is to enjoy indifferent health.

[Peytoncomes in.

Peyton.

If you please, sir, Mrs. Watson says, may she just see you for one minute.

Dickie.

[Resigned.] Yes.

[ExitPeyton.

Dickie.

What the dickens does she want now?

[PeytonshowsMrs. Watsonin.

Mrs. Watson.

You’ll think you’ve never seen the last of me.

Dickie.

[Blandly.] Not at all. Not at all.

Mrs. Watson.

I’ve been thinking about what you said about toasting my bread on one side.... On which side shall I put the butter?

Dickie.

[With his chin in his hand.] H’m. H’m. You must put the butter on the toasted side.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, thank you. Now just one more question, do you think a little jam would hurt me?

Dickie.

No, I don’t think a little jam would hurt you, but you mustn’t put it on the same side as you put the butter.

Mrs. Watson.

Oh, thank you. Good afternoon. I’m so much obliged.

Dickie.

Not at all. Not at all.

[Mrs. Watsongoes out.

Dickie.

[Shaking his fist at the door.] Suttee.... That’s the word. Suttee.

Penelope.

Dickie, what are you talking about?

Dickie.

I’ve been trying to think of it for ten minutes. That’s what doctors’ widows ought to do—Suttee. Like the Hindoos.

Penelope.

Burn themselves alive at their husbands’ death?

Dickie.

You’ve hit it. Suttee. That’s the word.

Penelope.

But, darling, I should hate to grace your funeral by making a bonfire of myself.

Dickie.

Oh, you have no affection for me.

Penelope.

Lots, but that’s asking a great deal, isn’t it?

Dickie.

No, you don’t care for me as much as you used to. You’re quite different. I’ve noticed lots of things.

Penelope.

[With a rapid glance at him, but keeping her chaffing manner.] Oh, nonsense.

Dickie.

You’ve changed lately. You never come down to see me off in the morning, and you don’t ask me at what time I’m coming back. You always used to sit on the arm of my chair after breakfast when I was smoking my pipe and reading the paper.

Penelope.

You must have hated it, didn’t you?

Dickie.

Of course I hated it, but it showed you were fond of me, and now that you don’t do it any more I miss it.

[Peytoncomes in, followed byMrs. Fergusson,and withdraws.

Peyton.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Dickiegives a slight start, and shows faintsigns of annoyance. He cannot make out whatMrs. Fergussonhas come for.

Mrs. Fergusson.

The maid told me you were here, so I asked her to show me straight in. I hope you don’t mind.

Penelope.

Of course not. We’re delighted to see you anywhere. Won’t you have some tea?

Mrs. Fergusson.

No, thank you. The fact is, I’ve come to see Dr. O’Farrell professionally.

Penelope.

You’re not ill?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ve not been very well lately, and I thought I’d like to see a doctor. [ToDickie.] Will you treat me?

Dickie.

I’ll do anything I can for you.

Mrs. Fergusson.

But it must be really a professional visit. You know, I want to pay.

Penelope.

Oh, nonsense, Dickie couldn’t dream of accepting money from one of my friends.

Mrs. Fergusson.

No, I’ve got the strictest principles on that point. I think it’s too bad of people to want a doctor to treat them for nothing. I really insist on paying the usual fee.

Dickie.

Oh, well, we’ll discuss that later.

Penelope.

I’ll leave you alone, shall I?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you mind, dear? It makes me a little uncomfortable to discuss my symptoms before a third party.

Penelope.

Of course.

Mrs. Fergusson.

We shall only be five minutes.

Penelope.

I warn you that Dickie’s medicines are perfectly beastly.

[She goes out.

Dickie.

I’m sorry you’re seedy. You were all right yesterday.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Laughing.] I’ve never been better in my life, thank you.

[Dickieis rather taken aback.

Mrs. Fergusson.

That’s the advantage of you being a doctor. When I want to see you alone I can do it under your wife’s very nose. Don’t you think it was rather ingenious?

Dickie.

[Dryly.] Very.

[She gives a little laugh. She gets up and steps cautiously to the door, and suddenly flings it open.

Dickie.

What on earth are you doing?

Mrs. Fergusson.

I wanted to see if Penelope was listening.

Dickie.

[Rather sharply.] Of course she wasn’t listening. That’s about the last thing she’d do.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, my dear, don’t get in a temper about it. Lots of women do listen, you know.

Dickie.

Do they? I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting them.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Fiddle.

Dickie.

Then will you tell me in what way I can be of use to you?

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Good-humouredly.] Certainly not, if you ask me as crossly as that. You may kiss my hand. [He does so.] That’s right. Still cross?

Dickie.

No.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you love me as much as ever?

Dickie.

Yes.

Mrs. Fergusson.

You wouldn’t say no if you didn’t, would you?

Dickie.

No.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Brute!

Dickie.

[Rather impatiently.] I say, what on earth have you come for?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Youarenice to me to-day.

Dickie.

Well, when I left you yesterday we fixed up everything.I gave you your ticket, and I wrote down the time the train started.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Well, for one thing I wanted to see Penelope.

Dickie.

Why?

Mrs. Fergusson.

It amuses me to see her simplicity. I get a lot of pleasure in looking at her and thinking how little she suspects what is going on under her very nose. She’s the most trusting person I ever met in my life.

Dickie.

If you want to know anything, it makes me feel devilish uncomfortable.

Mrs. Fergusson.

My poor, dear boy, whatareyou talking about?

Dickie.

It wouldn’t be so bad if we had to take any precautions. But she trusts us absolutely. Why, she’s always throwing us together. It never enters her head that there can be the least reason for suspicion. It’s like knocking a man down who can’t defend himself.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I suppose that means that you no longer love me?

Dickie.

Of course I love you. Good heavens, I’ve told you so till I’m blue in the face.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Oh, no, you no longer love me. Men only begin to have scruples when they stop caring for you.

[Dickiegives a sigh of resignation. This is not the first scene he has had to put up with.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ve sacrificed everything for your sake. And now you insult me. And when I think of my poor husband bravely serving his country in a foreign land! Oh, it’s cruel, cruel!

Dickie.

But I’ve only said it made me feel low down to treat Penelope badly.

Mrs. Fergusson.

You don’t think of my feelings. You don’t think how I feel. What about my husband?

Dickie.

Well, you see I don’t happen to know your husband, and I do know my wife.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Don’t be so stupid. Of course you know your wife.

Dickie.

That’s why I don’t like behaving like an utter cad.

Mrs. Fergusson.

If you really loved me you would think of nothing but me, nothing, nothing, nothing.

[She puts her handkerchief to her eyes.

Dickie.

Oh, I say, don’t cry.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I shall cry. I’ve never been treated like this before. If you don’t love me any more, why don’t you say so?

Dickie.

Yes, I do love you. But....

Mrs. Fergusson.

But what?

Dickie.

[Nervously.] Well—er—I think it would be much better if we—put the trip to Paris off for a bit.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[Gasping with anger.] Oh! Oh! Oh!

Dickie.

Penelope’s so blindly confident.

Mrs. Fergusson.

I’ll never speak to you again. I wish I had never met you. Oh, how can you insult me like this!

[She begins to sob.

Dickie.

Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord! I say, don’t cry. I didn’t mean to be horrid. I’m awfully sorry.

[He tries to take away her hands from her face.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Don’t touch me. Don’t come near me.

Dickie.

I’ll do anything you like if you won’t cry. I say, just think if Penelope came in—I was only thinking of the risk to you. Of course, there’s nothing I’d like so much as a jaunt over the Channel.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Is that true?

Dickie.

Yes.

Mrs. Fergusson.

Do you really want me to come?

Dickie.

Of course I do, if you don’t mind the risk.

Mrs. Fergusson.

[With a smile.] Oh, I’ll make that all right.

Dickie.

Why, what are you going to do?

Mrs. Fergusson.

Wait a minute or two and you’ll see.

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