I am urged to go to health resorts
ranging geographically from the top of the Jungfrau to Central Africa.
All kinds of worthy persons have offered to nurse me. Old General Wynans
writes me a four-page letter to assure me that I have only to go to his
friend Dr. Eustace Adams, of Wimpole Street, to be cured like a shot. I
happen to know that Eustace Adams is an eminent gynecologist.
And the worst of it all is that these effusions written in the milk of
human kindness have to be answered. Dale is not here. I have to sit down
at my desk and toil like a galley slave. I am being worn to a shadow.
Lola Brandt, too, has heard the news, Dale in Berlin, and the London
newspapers being her informants. Tears stood in her eyes when I called
to learn her decision. Why had I not told her I was so ill? Why had I
let her worry me with her silly troubles? Why had I not consulted
her friend, Sir Joshua Oldfield? She filled up my chair with cushions
(which, like most men, I find stuffy and comfortless), and if I had
given her the slightest encouragement, would have stuck my feet in hot
mustard and water.
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