A ring at the bell of the private hotel! _Voila le facteur_! The mail
has arrived.
He rouses himself and staggers out of his room. A pile of letters is
handed to him. Proofs which must be read at once; a book from a young
author, begging for a candid criticism: a paper containing a
controversial article to which he must reply without delay, a request
for a contribution to an almanac, an admonishing letter from his
publisher. How can an invalid cope with it all?
In the meantime the children's nurse has got up and dressed the
children, drunk the coffee made for her in the hotel kitchen, and
eaten the rolls spread with honey which have been sent up for her.
After breakfast she takes a stroll in the park.
At one o'clock the bell rings for luncheon. All the guests are assembled
in the dining-room. He, too, is there, sitting at the table by himself.
"Where is your wife?" he is asked on all sides.
"I don't know," he replies.
"What a brute!" is the comment of the ladies, who are still in their
morning gowns.
The entrance of his wife interrupts the progress of the meal, and the
hungry guests who have been punctual are kept waiting for the second
course.
The ladies enquire anxiously whether his, wife has slept well and
feels refreshed? Nobody asks him how he feels.
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