Well, don't you see, Edith dear, that
what we might call his depression, his melancholy point of view, is--is
growing worse and worse?'
Edith got up, walked to the other end of the room, rearranged some
violets in a copper vase and came back to the sofa again. Madame
Frabelle followed her with her eyes. Then Edith said, picking up
the knitting:
'Take care, dear, you're losing your wool. Yes; perhaps he is worse. He
might be better if he occupied his mind more.'
'He works at the Foreign Office from ten till four every day,' said
Madame Frabelle in a tone of defence; 'he looks in at his club, where
they talk over the news of the war, and then he comes home and we
discuss it again.... Really, Edith, I scarcely see how much more he
could do!'
'Oh, my dear, but don't you see all the time he doesn't do
anything?--anything about the war, I mean. Now both you and I do our
little best to help, in one way or another. You especially, I'm sure, do
a tremendous lot; but what does Bruce do? Nothing, except talk.'
'That's just it, Edith. I doubt if your husband is in a fit state of
health to strain his mind by any more work than he does already.
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