“I think I’ll go over and see Francis,” said Peter, one morning. “Poor old chap, he won’t be able to get out much in this.”
“Hadn’t you better wait till this afternoon?” Patricia looked at her husband across the breakfast-table. “Then we can go together.”
His eyes met hers steadily; there was a positive twinkle in them.
“I shan’t take the twelve-bore,” remarked our Mr. Jameson.
She postponed the children’s lesson-time a good half-hour—just for the pleasure of slipping out of the house after him, of concealing herself behind Tebbits’ snow-thatched rick to watch his stocky figure toiling downhill.
He came back in time for lunch, very out of breath but very delighted with his achievement; announced that, “Agoraphobia had been bloodily repulsed.”
“And how was Francis?” smiled Patricia, forgetting her usual “Language, Peter!” in excitement at this tangible proof of recovery.
“Francis!”—Peter hesitated a perceptible second. “To tell you the truth, Pat, I’ve been rather bothered about Francis. He’s brooding about something or other. His legs, I suppose. Have you noticed anything?”
“No,” lied Patricia. “I haven’t noticed anything.”
“May be only my imagination,” decided Peter. “But I don’t like the look of him somehow. He ought to consult that father of yours. However, he seemed better this morning. He’s got a new bee in his bonnet—America.”