"And you did want me to get better, didn't you?" Cosgrave pleaded
wistfully, "even if it wasn't with your medicine. And in a sort of way
it was your medicine, wasn't it? You made me go to see her."

Stonehouse had to sit down and pretend to rearrange his papers in order
to hide how impatient he felt.

"My professional vanity isn't wounded, if that's what you're getting
at. If you were better I'd be very glad. As far as I can see you're
only drunk."

"I know--a little--I'm not accustomed to it--but it's not that, Robert.
Really, it isn't. I'm jolly all--the time--even in the early morning.
Seem to have come back to life from a beastly long way off--all at
once--by special aeroplane. I don't think I've felt like this
since--since----"

"Since Connie Edwards' day," Robert suggested. "But I expect you've
forgotten her."

Cosgrave stared, round-eyed and open-mouthed and foolish.

"Connie----? No--I haven't. You bet I haven't. Often wonder what
became of her. She was a jolly good sort."

"You didn't think so by the time she'd finished with you."

"I was an ass. A giddy, hysterical ass. I didn't understand. Poor
old Connie! She could just swim for herself--but not for both of us.
And I scared her stiff--tying myself round her neck like that."