We are given a
part, or the whole, so distorted that we fail to recognise it.
Joseph looked up from his work and saw Jocelyn coming into the
bungalow garden.
He went out to meet her, putting on his coat as he went.
"How is Mr. Meredith?" she asked at once. Her eyes were very
bright, and there was a sort of breathlessness in her manner which
Joseph did not understand.
"He is a bit better, miss, thank you kindly. But he don't make the
progress I should like. It's the weakness that follows the malarial
attack that the doctor has to fight against."
"Where is he?" asked Jocelyn.
"Well, miss, at the moment he is in the drawing-room. We bring him
down there for the change of air in the afternoon. Likely as not,
he's asleep."
And presently Jack Meredith, lying comfortably somnolent on the
outskirts of life, heard light footsteps, but hardly heeded them.
He knew that some one came into the room and stood silently by his
couch for some seconds. He lazily unclosed his eyelids for a
moment, not in order to see who was there, but with a view of
intimating that he was not asleep. But he was not wholly conscious.
To men accustomed to an active, energetic life, a long illness is
nothing but a period of complete rest. In his more active moments
Jack Meredith sometimes thought that this rest of his was extending
into a dangerously long period, but he was too weak to feel anxiety
about anything.
Pages:
283
284
285
286
287
288
289
290
291
292
293
294
295
296
297
298
299
300
301
302
303
304
305
306
307