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upstairs to join Gerda and the children—free from the preoccupations of illness and suffering for a whole weekend.
    But he felt still that strange disinclination to move, that new queer lassitude of the will.
    He was tired—tired—tired.

Four
    I n the dining room of the flat above the consulting room Gerda Christow was staring at a joint of mutton.
    Should she or should she not send it back to the kitchen to be kept warm?
    If John was going to be much longer it would be cold—congealed, and that would be dreadful.
    But on the other hand the last patient had gone, John would be up in a moment, if she sent it back there would be delay—John was so impatient. “But surely you knew I was just coming…” There would be that tone of suppressed exasperation in his voice that she knew and dreaded. Besides, it would get overcooked, dried up—John hated overcooked meat.
    But on the other hand he disliked cold food very much indeed.
    At any rate the dish was nice and hot.
    Her mind oscillated to and fro, and her sense of misery and anxiety deepened.
    The whole world had shrunk to a leg of mutton getting cold on a dish.
    On the other side of the table her son Terence, aged twelve, said:
    â€œBoracic salts burn with a green flame, sodium salts are yellow.”
    Gerda looked distractedly across the table at his square, freckled face. She had no idea what he was talking about.
    â€œDid you know that, Mother?”
    â€œKnow what, dear?”
    â€œAbout salts.”
    Gerda’s eye flew distractedly to the salt cellar. Yes, salt and pepper were on the table. That was all right. Last week Lewis had forgotten them and that had annoyed John. There was always something….
    â€œIt’s one of the chemical tests,” said Terence in a dreamy voice. “Jolly interesting. I think.”
    Zena, aged nine, with a pretty, vacuous face, whimpered:
    â€œI want my dinner. Can’t we start, Mother?”
    â€œIn a minute, dear, we must wait for Father.”
    â€œ We could start,” said Terence. “Father wouldn’t mind. You know how fast he eats.”
    Gerda shook her head.
    Carve the mutton? But she never could remember which was the right side to plunge the knife in. Of course, perhaps Lewis had put it the right way on the dish—but sometimes she didn’t—and John was always annoyed if it was done the wrong way. And, Gerda reflected desperately, it always was the wrong way when she did it. Oh, dear, how cold the gravy was getting—a skin was forming on the top of it—and surely he would be coming now.
    Her mind went round and round unhappily…like a trapped animal.
    Sitting back in his consulting room chair, tapping with one hand on the table in front of him, conscious that upstairs lunch must be ready, John Christow was nevertheless unable to force himself to get up.
    San Miguel…blue sea…smell of mimosa…a scarlet tritoma upright against green leaves…the hot sun…the dust…that desperation of love and suffering….
    He thought: “Oh, God, not that. Never that again! That’s over….”
    He wished suddenly that he had never known Veronica, never married Gerda, never met Henrietta….
    Mrs. Crabtree, he thought, was worth the lot of them. That had been a bad afternoon last week. He’d been so pleased with the reactions. She could stand .005 by now. And then had come that alarming rise in toxicity and the DL reaction had been negative instead of positive.
    The old bean had lain there, blue, gasping for breath—peering up at him with malicious, indomitable eyes.
    â€œMaking a bit of a guinea pig out of me, ain’t you, dearie? Experimenting—that kinder thing.”
    â€œWe want to get you well,” he had said, smiling down at her.
    â€œUp to your tricks, yer mean!” She had grinned suddenly. “I don’t mind, bless yer. You carry on, Doctor! Someone’s got to be