them too you are perfectly frank... There remains
someone else." Sir Richmond stared at his physician.
"Well," he said and laughed. "I didn't pretend to have made my
autobiography anything more than a sketch."
"No, but there is a special person, the current person."
"I haven't dilated on my present situation, I admit."
"From some little things that have dropped from you, I should say there
is a child."
"That," said Sir Richmond after a brief pause, "is a good guess."
"Not older than three."
"Two years and a half."
"You and this lady who is, I guess, young, are separated. At any rate,
you can't go to her. That leaves you at loose ends, because for some
time, for two or three years at least, you have ceased to be—how
shall I put it?—an emotional wanderer."
"I begin to respect your psychoanalysis."
"Hence your overwhelming sense of the necessity of feminine
companionship for weary men. I guess she is a very jolly companion to be
with, amusing, restful—interesting."
"H'm," said Sir Richmond. "I think that is a fair description. When she
cares, that is. When she is in good form."
"Which she isn't at present," hazarded the doctor. He exploded a mine of
long-pent exasperation.
"She is the clumsiest hand at keeping well that I have ever known.
Health is a woman's primary duty. But she is incapable of the most
elementary precautions. She is maddeningly receptive to every infection.
At the present moment, when I am ill, when I am in urgent need of help
and happiness, she has let that wretched child get measles and
she herself won't let me go near her because she has got something
disfiguring, something nobody else could ever have or think of having,
called CARBUNCLE. Carbuncle!"
"It is very painful," said Dr. Martineau. "No doubt it is," said Sir
Richmond.
"No doubt it is." His voice grew bitter. He spoke with deliberation. "A
perfectly aimless, useless illness,—and as painful as it CAN be."
He spoke as if he slammed a door viciously. And indeed he had slammed
a door. The doctor realized that for the present there was no more
self-dissection to be got from Sir Richmond.
For some time Sir Richmond had been keeping the boat close up to the
foaming weir to the left of the lock by an occasional stroke. Now with
a general air of departure he swung the boat round and began to row down
stream towards the bridge and the Radiant Hotel.
"Time we had tea," he said.
Section 6
After tea Dr. Martineau left Sir Richmond in a chair upon the lawn,
brooding darkly—apparently over the crime of the carbuncle. The doctor
went to his room, ostensibly to write a couple of letters and put on
a dinner jacket, but really to make a few notes of the afternoon's
conversation and meditate over his impressions while they were fresh.
His room proffered a comfortable armchair and into this he sank...
A number of very discrepant things were busy in his mind. He had
experienced a disconcerting personal attack. There was a whirl of active
resentment in the confusion.
"Apologetics of a rake," he tried presently.
"A common type, stripped of his intellectual dressing. Every third
manufacturer from the midlands or the north has some such undertow
of 'affairs.' A physiological uneasiness, an imaginative laxity,
the temptations of the trip to London—weakness masquerading as a
psychological necessity. The Lady of the Carbuncle seems to have got
rather a hold upon him. She has kept him in order for three or four
years."
The doctor scrutinized his own remarks with a judicious expression.
"I am not being fair. He ruffled me. Even if it is true, as I said, that
every third manufacturer from the midlands is in much the same case as
he is, that does not dismiss the case. It makes it a more important
one, much more important: it makes it a type case with the exceptional
quality of being self-expressive. Almost too selfexpressive.
"Sir Richmond does, after all, make out a sort of case for himself....
"A valid case?"
The doctor sat deep in his
someone else." Sir Richmond stared at his physician.
"Well," he said and laughed. "I didn't pretend to have made my
autobiography anything more than a sketch."
"No, but there is a special person, the current person."
"I haven't dilated on my present situation, I admit."
"From some little things that have dropped from you, I should say there
is a child."
"That," said Sir Richmond after a brief pause, "is a good guess."
"Not older than three."
"Two years and a half."
"You and this lady who is, I guess, young, are separated. At any rate,
you can't go to her. That leaves you at loose ends, because for some
time, for two or three years at least, you have ceased to be—how
shall I put it?—an emotional wanderer."
"I begin to respect your psychoanalysis."
"Hence your overwhelming sense of the necessity of feminine
companionship for weary men. I guess she is a very jolly companion to be
with, amusing, restful—interesting."
"H'm," said Sir Richmond. "I think that is a fair description. When she
cares, that is. When she is in good form."
"Which she isn't at present," hazarded the doctor. He exploded a mine of
long-pent exasperation.
"She is the clumsiest hand at keeping well that I have ever known.
Health is a woman's primary duty. But she is incapable of the most
elementary precautions. She is maddeningly receptive to every infection.
At the present moment, when I am ill, when I am in urgent need of help
and happiness, she has let that wretched child get measles and
she herself won't let me go near her because she has got something
disfiguring, something nobody else could ever have or think of having,
called CARBUNCLE. Carbuncle!"
"It is very painful," said Dr. Martineau. "No doubt it is," said Sir
Richmond.
"No doubt it is." His voice grew bitter. He spoke with deliberation. "A
perfectly aimless, useless illness,—and as painful as it CAN be."
He spoke as if he slammed a door viciously. And indeed he had slammed
a door. The doctor realized that for the present there was no more
self-dissection to be got from Sir Richmond.
For some time Sir Richmond had been keeping the boat close up to the
foaming weir to the left of the lock by an occasional stroke. Now with
a general air of departure he swung the boat round and began to row down
stream towards the bridge and the Radiant Hotel.
"Time we had tea," he said.
Section 6
After tea Dr. Martineau left Sir Richmond in a chair upon the lawn,
brooding darkly—apparently over the crime of the carbuncle. The doctor
went to his room, ostensibly to write a couple of letters and put on
a dinner jacket, but really to make a few notes of the afternoon's
conversation and meditate over his impressions while they were fresh.
His room proffered a comfortable armchair and into this he sank...
A number of very discrepant things were busy in his mind. He had
experienced a disconcerting personal attack. There was a whirl of active
resentment in the confusion.
"Apologetics of a rake," he tried presently.
"A common type, stripped of his intellectual dressing. Every third
manufacturer from the midlands or the north has some such undertow
of 'affairs.' A physiological uneasiness, an imaginative laxity,
the temptations of the trip to London—weakness masquerading as a
psychological necessity. The Lady of the Carbuncle seems to have got
rather a hold upon him. She has kept him in order for three or four
years."
The doctor scrutinized his own remarks with a judicious expression.
"I am not being fair. He ruffled me. Even if it is true, as I said, that
every third manufacturer from the midlands is in much the same case as
he is, that does not dismiss the case. It makes it a more important
one, much more important: it makes it a type case with the exceptional
quality of being self-expressive. Almost too selfexpressive.
"Sir Richmond does, after all, make out a sort of case for himself....
"A valid case?"
The doctor sat deep in his
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