"A broken leg or two would delay us worse," said the doctor philosophically.
He was a bearded, hard-working man, with a reputation that extended beyond the Midlands.
After finding out from Char that she knew little or nothing of her father's state of health, he asked her with a quick look: "And yourself, Miss Charmian? You look rather washed out."
Char gave a short, hoarse cough, semi-involuntary, at this unflattering description.
"I'm afraid I'm in the midst of an influenza attack. My staff have all been down with it, more or less. However, I can't afford to give way to that sort of thing now; there's far too much work to be done."
"You ought to take six months' holiday," said the doctor decidedly, and relapsed into silence.
Char wondered if he were meditating an appeal to her. It must outrage his professional instincts to see any one looking as she did still upon her feet. The doctor, however, who had been up since two o'clock that morning, was merely trying to snatch some sleep.
He had known Char Vivian all her life, and had no thought whatever of wasting appeals upon her.
At Plessing, Trevellyan met them in the hall.
"Good-evening, Char," he greeted her. "Sir Piers is much the same. Not conscious. Will you go up, doctor? They'll have some dinner ready by the time you come down. I'm afraid you've had a cold drive."