"That's what the doctor says," remarked King, his pensive gaze bent on the ribbon bordering of Linda's thin frock.
She started and leaned toward him. "The doctor!" she repeated. "Has Doctor Flagg been talking to you about father? Is he—is he worried about him?"
King shook his head. "I didn't go to Doctor Flagg. I went to Doctor Young. We've been getting some golf together lately, and he's a good sort."
"What's the matter with you, Bertram?" Linda sat up again, and her voice and manner cooled. "What do you want of a doctor?"
King shook his head. "Never in my life before: first offense. Everything seemed to go back on me all of a sudden. Sleeping, eating, and all the rest of it." The speaker scowled. "The mischief of it is, Young says I've got to get away for a month at least. He says—Oh, you don't care what he says."
Linda regarded the downcast one. He was speaking to her as to an equal, not, as usual, with tacit rebuke for some misdemeanor. This blunt reproach, if it were reproach, merely referred casually to her indifference.
"I care a great deal," she returned, with spirit. "I'm sure it will make my father very anxious to have you away at the same time he is."
King lifted his weary eyes to hers, eager and bright.
"I'm sure Doctor Flagg could give you a tonic or something to tide you over till we return in September," she went on. "You could go then."
Her companion leaned back in his chair with a long, inaudible breath. "We have arranged all that. Mr. Barry wants me to go."