“So she is lying there with all those people. If only she could sleep properly.”

My father nods. His face is broken and full of furrows. My mother has always been sickly; and though she has only gone to the hospital when she has been compelled to, it has cost a great deal of money, and my father’s life has been practically given up to it.

“If only I knew how much the operation costs,” says he.

“Have you not asked?”

“Not directly. I cannot do that⁠—the surgeon might take it amiss and that would not do; he must operate on Mother.”

Yes, I think bitterly, that’s how it is with us, and with all poor people. They don’t dare ask the price, but worry themselves dreadfully beforehand about it; but the others, for whom it is not important, they settle the price first as a matter of course. And the doctor does not take it amiss from them.