Sir John looked anxious and worried, and he stretched out a strong brown hand to lay upon his son’s shoulder, but he let it fall again, drew a deep breath, and then very gently asked him the question about the walk.
“Did you speak to me, father?” said the lad vacantly.
“Speak to you!” cried Sir John, in an impatient, angry tone, “of course I spoke to you. It worries me to see you so constantly sitting over the fire reading.”
“Does it, father?” said the lad, wincing at the tone in which these words were spoken, and looking up in an apologetic way.
“I didn’t mean to speak to you so sharply, my boy,” continued Sir John, “but I don’t like to see you neglecting your health so. Study’s right enough, but too much of a good thing is bad for any one. Now, on a fine morning like this—”
“Is it fine, father? I thought it was cold.”
“Cold! Tut—tut—tut! The weather is never cold to a healthy, manly boy.”
“I’m afraid I’m not manly, father,” said the lad.
“No, Jack, nor healthy neither; you are troubling me a great deal.”
“Am I, father?” said the lad softly. “I’m very sorry. But I really am quite well.”