§ 308 A Growing Suspicion
For years Mrs. Grauman, wife of the wealthy retired shirt-waist manufacturer, had been ailing. Or anyhow, she thought she was ailing. She tried one specialist after another, patronized a succession of sanitariums, took the cure here, there and elsewhere. Yet nothing seemed to help her. She remained a chronic complainer.
The husband’s patience sorely was tested. Also there was a constant drain upon his checkbook. Mr. Grauman didn’t so much mind the latter. Always he had been a generous provider for his family. What secretly irked him was a conviction that the lady’s trouble was more or less imaginary; an unspoken but none-the-less sincere belief that his money was being spent to gratify a neurotic whim. Had Mr. Grauman known the words “malingerer” and “hypochondriac” these undoubtedly were the words he would have applied in his own private diagnosis of the case.
Nevertheless, the invalid, after long months of treatment, succumbed to her mysterious malady. She became no more.
On the night before the funeral the mourning widower sat alone by the bier. For long hours he communed with himself. Finally he reached forth a caressing hand and softly patted the casket.
“Vell,” he said, “maybe Mommer vas sick!”