THE UNDYING FIRE
"Misfortunes don't ever come singly," said Mrs. Croome with quiet satisfaction, leaning across the table to brush some spilt salt from off the cloth to the floor. She was not going to make any rash promises about Mrs. Huss.
"We 'ave to bear up with what is put upon us," said Mrs. Croome. "We 'ave to find strength where strength is to be found."
She stood up and regarded him with pensive malignity. "Very likely all you want is a tonic of some sort. Very likely you've just let yourself go. I shouldn't be surprised."
The sick man gave no welcome to this suggestion.
"If you was to go round to the young doctor at the corner—Barrack isnameis—very likely he'd put you right. Everybody says he's very clever. Not that me and Croome put much faith in doctors. Nor need to. But you're in a different position."
The man in the chair had been to see the young doctor at the corner twice already, but he did not want to discuss that interview with Mrs. Croome just then. "I must think about it," he said evasively.
"After all it isn't fair to yourself, it isn't fair to others, to sicken for—it might be anything—without proper advice. Sitting there and doing nothing. Especially in lodgings at this time of year. It isn't, well—not what I call considerate."
"Exactly," said Mr. Huss weakly.
"There's homes and hospitals properly equipped."
The sick man nodded his head appreciatively.
"If things are nipped in the bud they're nipped in the bud, otherwise they grow and make trouble."
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