Aaron lay still, rather grey and peaked-looking, in a stillness that was not healthy. For some time Lilly went about stealthily, glancing at his patient from time to time. Then he sat down to read.
He was roused after a time by a moaning of troubled breathing and a fretful stirring in the bed. He went across. Aaron's eyes were open, and dark looking.
"Have a little hot milk," said Lilly.
Aaron shook his head faintly, not noticing.
"A little Bovril?"
The same faint shake.
Then Lilly wrote a note for the doctor, went into the office on the same landing, and got a clerk, who would be leaving in a few minutes, to call with the note. When he came back he found Aaron still watching.
"Are you here by yourself?" asked the sick man.
"Yes. My wife's gone to Norway."
"For good?"
"No," laughed Lilly. "For a couple of months or so. She'll come back here: unless she joins me in Switzerland or somewhere."
Aaron was still for a while.
"You've not gone with her," he said at length.
"To see her people? No, I don't think they want me very badly—and I didn't want very badly to go. Why should I? It's better for married people to be separated sometimes."
"Ay!" said Aaron, watching the other man with fever-darkened eyes.
"I hate married people who are two in one—stuck together like two jujube lozenges," said Lilly.
"Me an' all. I hate 'em myself," said Aaron.
"Everybody ought to stand by themselves, in the first place—men and women as well. They can come together, in the second place, if they like. But nothing is any good unless each one stands alone, intrinsically."
"I'm with you there," said Aaron. "If I'd kep' myself to myself I shouldn't be bad now—though I'm not very bad.
