“That’s not very encouraging, father,” he said. “Not convalescing weather.”
He appeared to pull himself together. “But there’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “I should feel depressed in this damp darkness whether I had had the flue or not.”
“You want the sun,” said Philip.
“Ah, the sun! Is there one? Do show it me.”
Philip walked to the window; thin rain was leaking through the fog. It certainly was not inspiriting.
“Well, why not go and see it for yourself?” he said. “There’s sun somewhere. Go off to the Riviera for a fortnight with Violet.”
“Oh, that would be divine if we only could,” said Colin. “But—I daresay it’s funny of me—I don’t want Vi to go through the sort of journey you have at this time of year. The trains are crammed; a fellow I know had to stand all the way from Paris to Marseilles. I shouldn’t like her to do that. Besides we can’t both leave you.”
“Go alone then. Violet will understand.”
Colin sighed.
“I don’t think I feel much like travelling either,” he said. “I’ll stick it out, father. I can go to bed again. I think that’s the most comfortable place. Besides the Riviera is like a monkey-house just now.”