The Saving Clause by H.C. McNeile — Read

Dinner was never a very edifying meal in the Marwood household. Grace had long given up the experiment of asking in any guests: in fact, the last time had been four years ago. The remembrance of that occasion still lingered in her memory. A certain flippant stockbroker had been present, who insisted on capping every one of his host's symptoms with those possessed by an aunt of his. In fact, the hypothetical aunt won in a canter: the finishing touch being put on when the stockbroker jovially comforted Marwood with the information that the old girl wasn't dead yet.

And to-night, as she sat opposite her husband. Grace was trying to get her hearings. In silence she had watched him hobble in between two footmen: with weary contempt she had followed the old familiar procedure. First the footstool was adjusted for the leg that had neuritis: then the cushion was put behind his back. Finally one of the men advanced with a purple liquid on a salver, which represented the last brand of patent filth that was being tried. She had grown so used to the whole programme that generally it meant nothing to her; it was part of her life, and she had accepted it as such. The thought of changing it in any way had simply never occurred to her: it was as much part of John as his face.