"I suppose it's the air," Mark explained. "I'm out-of-doors night and day. My trouble is scotched."
"I can't understand how you can joke about it," said Archie.
"A vile pun, but irresistible. I say, wash that frown off your face and come down. We'll have a pipe and a good jaw afterwards. If you think, by the way, that I do look better, you might say so to David Ross. He's been awfully kind."
"Why didn't you go home?"
"I c-c-couldn't," said Mark shortly.
In the refectory, a long, low annexe to the house, the Bishop's guests sat at meat. Some of them were ruddy and robust; others looked thin and white, but not one, so Archie remarked, wore the sable of discontent. The eyes that met his were candid and clear—the eyes of men satisfied with their lot in life. At the foot of the table sat a little fellow with a big head, which waggled comically. Archie wondered where he had seen him before; then he remembered. The little man looked like Mr. Pickwick, although he lacked that illustrious character's deportment and dignity.
"Who is that?" he whispered to Mark, who sat beside him.
"That's Stride, our resident doctor. He's mad keen about the open-air cure. He got his ideas from Father Kneippe."
In those days neither Father Kneippe nor his ideas were famous. The open-air treatment for disease was practically unknown. Mark explained Stride's methods: his theories on diet and physical culture, facts now familiar to everybody.
"Stride lives here all the year round, you know. David Ross comes and goes at long intervals."