“My son,” he said, “you had better tell me what the trouble is—it will do your stubborn carcase good.”
“I must go back to work,” said Harz.
“Work!” said Dawney deliberately: “you couldn't, if you tried.”
“I must.”
“My dear fellow, you couldn't tell one colour from another.”
“I must be doing something; I can't sit here and think.”
Dawney hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat: “You won't see the sun for three days yet, if I can help it.”
Harz got up.
“I'm going to my studio to-morrow,” he said. “I promise not to go out. I must be where I can see my work. If I can't paint, I can draw; I can feel my brushes, move my things about. I shall go mad if I do nothing.”
Dawney took his arm, and walked him up and down.