I was feebly
angry because of the irritation of dressing, and particularly of the
struggle to put on my trousers without being able to see my legs. I was
staggering about, and once I had fallen over a chair and I had upset the
jar of Michaelmas daisies.
I must have been a detestable spectacle. "I'll go back to bed," said I,
"if I may have a word with Miss Beatrice. I've got something to say to
her. That's why I'm dressing."
My point was conceded, but there were long delays. Whether the household
had my ultimatum or whether she told Beatrice directly I do not know,
and what Lady Osprey can have made of it in the former case I don't
imagine.
At last Beatrice came and stood by my bedside. "Well?" she said.
"All I want to say," I said with the querulous note of a misunderstood
child, "is that I can't take this as final. I want to see you and talk
when I'm better, and write. I can't do anything now. I can't argue."
I was overtaken with self-pity and began to snivel, "I can't rest. You
see? I can't do anything."
She sat down beside me again and spoke softly.
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