Roger gazed after her with eyes that shone. Then he put his hand to his head and frowned again.
"Bring me a whisky and soda, will you, Chalmers?" he said. "I'll see if that will do this beastly head any good."
The headache had not gone next morning, though it had subsided into a duller sensation. His aunt at breakfast noticed that he had no appetite, merely trifling with his grapefruit and tasting his coffee. At once she inquired the reason, remarking at the same time that he had not his usual healthy colour.
"Oh, it's nothing, Dido. I do feel a bit rotten."
"Does your head pain you?"
"A bit: I shall be all right presently."
He was annoyed to see apprehension cloud the old lady's eyes.
"My dear, don't begin bothering about me. Can't a person have a little ordinary headache without——"
"I know, Roger, darling, only with your father and then Thérèse…
Don't you think you'd better see the doctor?"
"I see altogether too much of the doctor, thank you; wherever I go I seem to run into him. He's a depressing brute."