“Never, aunt. Why do you ask me?”
“Because you said a little while back that you felt rather poorly of late,—low and weakly.”
“No loss of appetite, though,” chuckled in my uncle.
“And we were thinking,” resumed she, “of sending you over to stay a few weeks with an old friend of ours in Donegal. He calls it the finest air in Europe; and I know he 'd treat you with every kindness.”
“Do you shoot?” asked my uncle.
“No, sir.”
“Nor fish?”
“No, sir.”
“What are you as a sportsman? Can you ride? Can you do anything?”
“Nothing whatever, sir. I once carried a game-bag, and that was all.”