"Very well," Dr. Veiga concurred. "It doesn't really matter whether you
go to Frinton now or next month, or even next year but one. You're a
powerful woman and you'll last a long time yet, especially if you don't
worry. I won't call for about a week, and if you'd like to consult
another doctor, do." He smiled on her in an avuncular manner, and rose.

Whereupon Mr. Prohack also jumped up.

"I'm not worrying," she protested, with a sweet, pathetic answering
smile. "Yes, I am. Yes, I am. I'm worrying because I know I'm worrying
my poor husband." She went quickly to her poor husband and kissed him
lavishly. Eve was an artist in kissing, and never a greater artist than
at that moment. And now Mr. Prohack, though still to the physical eye a
single individual, became two Mr. Prohacks. There was the Mr. Prohack
who strongly deprecated this departure from the emotional reserve which
is one of the leading and sublimest characteristics of the British
governing-class. And there was the Mr. Prohack, all nerves and heart and
humanity, who profoundly enjoyed the demonstration of a woman's
affection, disordered and against the rules though the demonstration
might be. The first Mr. Prohack blushed and hated himself for blushing.
The second was quite simply enraptured and didn't care who knew it.

"Dr. Veiga," Eve appealed, clinging to Mr. Prohack's coat. "It is my
husband who needs looking after. He is not making any progress, and it
is my fault. And let me tell you that you've been neglecting him for
me."

She was a dramatic figure of altruism, of the everlasting sacrificial
feminine. She was quite possibly absurd, but beyond doubt she was