But he wasn't, it was part of his language--little clicks and ticks. He
comes from somewhere in Central Africa, and one of the T.B.'s told me,
"He's only got one wife, nurse."

He is very proud of his austerity, for he has somehow discovered that he
has hit on a country where it is the nutty thing only to have one wife.

No one can speak a word of his language, no one knows exactly where he
comes from; but he can say in English, "Good morning, Sister!" and
"Christmas Box!" and "One!"

Directly one takes any notice of him he laughs and clicks, holding up
one finger, crying, "One!"

Then a proud T.B. (they regard him as the Creator might regard a
humming-bird) explains: "He means he's only got one wife, nurse."

Then he did his second trick. He came to me with outstretched black hand
and took my apron, fingering it. Its whiteness slipped between his
fingers. He dropped it and, holding up the hand with its fellow, ducked
his head to watch me with his glinting eyes.

"He means," explained the versatile T.B., "that he has ten piccaninnies
in his village and they're all dressed in white."

It took my breath away; I looked at Henry for corroboration. He nodded
earnestly, coughed and whispered, "Ten!"

"How do you know he means that?" I asked. "How can you possibly have
found out?"

"We got pictures, nurse. We showed 'im kids, and 'e said 'e got ten--six
girls and four boys. We showed 'im pictures of kids."

I had never seen Henry before, never knew he existed. But in the ward
opposite the poor T.B.'s had been holding conversations with him in
window-seats, showing him pictures, painfully establishing a communion
with him ... Henry, with his hair done up in hairpins!

Although they showed him off with conscious pride, I don't think he
really appeared strange to them, beyond his colour. I believe they
imagine his wife as appearing much as their own wives, his children as
the little children who run about their own doorsteps. They do not
stretch their imaginations to conceive any strangeness about his home
surroundings to correspond with his own strangeness.

To them Henry has the dignity of a man and a householder, possibly a
rate-payer.

He seems quite happy and amused. I see him carrying a bucket sometimes,
sharing its handle with a flushed T.B. They carry on animated
conversations as they go downstairs, the T.B. talking the most. It
reminds me of a child and a dog.

What strange machinery is there for gettin