“Damp—damp,” said Menzies-Legh, shaking his head and screwing up his mouth in a disapproval that astonished me.
“What?” I said. “It may be a little damp if the weather is damp, but one must get used to hardships.”
“Only to find,” said he, “that one’s constitution has been undermined.”
“What?” said I, unable to understand this change of attitude.
“Undermined for life,” said he, impressively.
“My dear sir, I have heard you myself, under the most adverse circumstances, repeatedly remark that it was healthy and jolly.”
“My dear Baron,” said he, “I am not like you. Neither Jellaby, nor I, nor Browne either, for that matter, has your physique. We are physically, compared to you—to be quite frank—mere weeds.”
“Oh, come now, my dear sir, I cannot permit you—you undervalue—of slighter build, perhaps, but hardly——”
“It is true. Weeds. Mere weeds. And my point is that we, accordingly, are not nearly so likely as you are to suffer in the long run from the privations and exposure of a bad-weather holiday like this.”
“Well now, you must pardon me if I entirely fail to see——”