She was recalled to reality by the voice of the Disagreeable Man. She
did not hear what he said, but she mechanically stretched out her hand
and passed him the mustard-pot.
"Is that what you asked for?" she said half dreamily; "or was it the
water-bottle?"
"You are rather deaf, I should think," said the Disagreeable Man
placidly. "I only remarked that it was a pity you were not eating your
dinner. Perhaps the scrutiny of the two hundred and fifty guests in
this civilized place is a vexation to you."
"I did not know they were scrutinizing," she answered; "and even if
they are, what does it matter to me? I am sure I am quite too tired to
care."
"Why have you come here?" asked the Disagreeable Man suddenly.
"Probably for the same reason as yourself," she said; "to get better
or well."
"You won't get better," he answered cruelly; "I know your type well;
you burn yourselves out quickly. And--my God--how I envy you!"
"So you have pronounced my doom," she said, looking at him intently.
Then she laughed but there was no merriment in the laughter.
"Listen," she said, as she bent nearer to him; "because you are
hopeless, it does not follow that you should try to make others
hopeless too.
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