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_.)

My favourite flower. He--he! My favourite flower.

(_Lassitude overtakes him--his head nods and droops as he speaks_.)

A primrose by the river's brim
A yellow primrose was to him,