DOCTOR.  My dear lord, it is I who must stop it now.  You mustn’t go on.

STATESMAN.  I have done, Doctor.  There I have given you the essentials of my dream; material depressing enough for the mind of an old man, enfeebled by indisposition, at the end of a long day’s work.  But I tell you, Doctor, that nothing therein which stands explainable fills me with such repulsion and aversion as that one thing which I cannot explain—­why, why primroses?

DOCTOR.  A remarkable dream, my lord; rendered more vivid—­or, as you say, “real”—­by your present disturbed state of health.  As to that part of it which you find so inexplicable, I can at least point toward where the explanation lies.  It reduces itself to this:  primroses had become associated for you—­in a way which you have forgotten—­with something you wished to avoid.  And so they became the image, or symbol, of your aversion; and as such found a place in your dream.

(So saying the doctor rises and moves toward the window, where his attention suddenly becomes riveted.)

STATESMAN.  Perhaps, Doctor, perhaps, as you say, there is some such explanation.  But I don’t feel like that.

DOCTOR.  Why, here are primroses!  This may be the clue?  Where do they come from?

STATESMAN.  Ah, those!  Indeed, I had forgotten them.  At least; no, I could not have done that.

DOCTOR.  There is a written card with them, I see.

STATESMAN.  Her Gracious Majesty did me the great honour, hearing that I was ill, to send and inquire.  Of course, since my removal from office, the opportunity of presenting my personal homage has not been what it used to be.  That, I suppose, is as well.

DOCTOR.  And these are from her Majesty?

STATESMAN.  They came yesterday, brought by a special messenger, with a note written by her own hand, saying that she had picked them herself.  To so great a condescension I made with all endeavour what return I could.  I wrote—­a difficult thing for me to do, Doctor, just now—­presented my humble duty, my thanks; and said they were my favourite flower.

DOCTOR.  And were they?

STATESMAN.  Of course, Doctor, under those circumstances any flower would have been.  It just happened to be that.

DOCTOR.  Well, my lord, there, then, the matter is explained.  You had primroses upon your mind.  The difficulty, the pain even, of writing with your crippled hand, became associated with them.  You would have much rather not had to write; and the disinclination, in an exaggerated form, got into your dream.  Now that, I hope, mitigates for you the annoyance—­the distress of mind.

STATESMAN.  Yes, yes.  It does, as you say, make it more understandable.  Bring them to me, Doctor; let me look my enemy in the face.

(The Doctor carries the bowl across and sets it beside him.  Very feebly he reaches out a hand and takes some.)