Sir Charles thrust out his lower lip. He had planted himself in an armchair, while his wife remained standing a little behind him, her face, it seemed to Esther, full of anxiety.
"Oh, headaches, backaches. The back's the worst. Goes on steadily.
Had it for days."
"Sharp pain?"
"No, dull. Not like lumbago."
"He has no appetite," added his sister.
"Well, well, let's have a look at you."
The doctor drew a chair beside Sir Charles and reached for the gaunt brownish hand. At the same moment Lady Clifford made a little movement of solicitude, laying her gloved hand on the old man's shoulder.
"Are you quite comfortable there, mon cher?" she whispered. "You're not in a courant d'air?"
He let her hand rest, but shook his head impatiently.
"No, no, I'm all right. My God, doctor, what with these two women for ever fussing about my health and asking me how I feel a hundred times a day, the wonder is I manage to keep going at all."