Mrs. Cotton was kind, but how she talked! She stayed for what seemed hours, at the foot of the bed, telling Elizabeth how she had once had a nephew what died of “’flu turned to double pneumonia.” It was not very cheering, and it was horrible to be called “pore dear” by your landlady. Still more horrible was it to lie in bed all day long and all night, alone, too ill to read, and too ill to sleep. She longed for someone to come to see her, someone who would be kind and sympathetic, and bring her flowers to put on the table by the bed. Yet still she would not let Mrs. Cotton send for Miss Arden. Her aunt would say, I told you so, and she would insist on taking her away to the sea. Elizabeth did not want that, and pride refused to allow her to tell anyone that she was ill.

Convalescence came, and with it still deeper depression. Elizabeth crawled about the house, and later, round the streets. She thought then that being ill was perhaps better than convalescence. You were miserable, yes, but not so miserable as when you were up, and dressed, and trying to pursue your life’s ordinary course.

She had to think of meals again; that was dreadful when the contemplation of food made you feel sick. And Mrs. Cotton suggested every morning that she should cook Elizabeth a nice dish of tripe and onions. In desperation Elizabeth would say, I’ll have fish. Turbot. Boiled. When it was put before her she recoiled from it, and lunched off bread and butter, and, occasionally, an egg. Mrs. Cotton said, It do seem crool to waste all that beautiful turbot. In a peevish mood Elizabeth answered, It isn’t beautiful; it’s ugly. Mrs. Cotton shook her head and murmured, Ah, pore dear! If only you could get out more an’ take the air!

It was just what Elizabeth could not do. She thought her legs were made of cotton-wool; they would not bear her many yards. Vaguely she felt that she ought to hire a carriage to drive her round the Park, but she had never done this, and she didn’t know how one did it, or what it would cost, or what one tipped the coachman. It was all too difficult and too worrying. She let the matter slide, entirely apathetic. Instead of driving out she sat in an armchair by her window, and for the second time read Stephen’s new book.

Even that wearied her. The book would lie open on her knee while she looked dreamily out of the window, listening to the muffled roar of traffic in the distance.