“It’s difficult to say. He is the sort of fellow who never thinks about himself, and Delphine is not—not exactly noticing! I fancy she blames herself now; but he never complained, and always went on working at full pressure, till this attack came on, and he went down with a crash.”
“And now? How does he seem now?”
His forehead wrinkled into lines.
“Depressed. Nervous. Inclined to be jumpy. He has lived for his work, and hates the idea of giving up, even for a time. He has overtaxed his strength for years, and his nerves are bound to play up. However, once we get them off to the sun, he’ll soon pull round.”
“And when do they—”
“As soon as possible. It is Delphine who is putting things off. So far as Merrivale himself is concerned, the sooner he starts the better. He’ll not grow any stronger where he is. When are you coming back to ‘Pastimes’?”
“It’s uncertain. Not before Christmas. Is your mother quite well?”
“Quite, thanks. You know that I have made Miss Harding’s acquaintance. She is a charming old lady.”
“I’m so glad you like her. I knew you had called. Nice little flat, isn’t it?”
He growled, his face eloquent with disapproval.