“Yes, just that,” he said. “I hate being on bad terms with anybody, especially him.”
Lord Flintshire looked at him again.
“The boy’s ill,” he said to himself. Then aloud,—“Well, let us walk over after breakfast, if you feel inclined. You can see Helen while I go in and talk to your father. You don’t look particularly fit this morning, Martin. Anything wrong?”
“I feel beastly,” said Martin, with directness. “I shouldn’t wonder if I had got influenza, too.”
“Are you sure you feel up to coming over? Yes, your father mentions that Clara has got it. If the doctor is there, he might just have a look at you. Or, if you don’t feel up to coming, I would send him back here.”
Martin pulled himself together. The tea had made him feel quite distinctly better.
“Oh, no, I’m quite up to it,” he said. “Probably the doctor will tell me to go for a long walk and eat a big dinner. And I should like to see my father as soon as possible, and get it over. It will all be easier after that.”
His uncle got up.
“Shall we start in half an hour, then? We shall be sure to catch him before he goes out. Cigarette?”
“No, I think not, thanks,” said Martin.