“Gilbert,” she said earnestly, “do give yourself every chance. Can’t you pretend to yourself that this a well-earned holiday, and that you are going to enjoy it thoroughly? Put London and the Law Courts out of your mind.”
He gave a half-sigh, half-grunt. “That’s like a woman. Women think you can detach yourself from your real interest in life, like you can take off an old overcoat. I must think of something. Claudia, how many papers did my—my accident get into?”
“Only one or two unimportant ones. You needn’t worry about that, Gilbert.”
He frowned at the blue sky overhead. “I suppose everybody was laughing about it.... It was that hot whisky that did it.”
“Yes. Don’t think about it.”
“A few weeks will set me up. I suppose I really did need a holiday. But I never thought I should have to give up like this. You’ve got the laugh on me, Claudia.”
“I don’t want to laugh, Gilbert. I realize what this means to you and—I’m sorry.”
He looked at her with his sombre, heavy-lidded eyes, that had once darkened with overmastering passion, that night of the dance. All the youthfulness had gone out of the face. He might have been a man of forty-five instead of thirty-five. Youth had fought unsuccessfully with a heaviness of the spirit that had always been there, but had greatly increased the last two years. She wondered of what he was thinking as he looked at her. One could never guess with Gilbert. He had the typical barrister’s face, non-committal, secretive of his thoughts.
Then he said abruptly, “Enjoy yourself at Le Touquet. I shan’t. It’s medicine, and I must take it. Just leave me alone and have a good time yourself. Is that Boulogne? Thank goodness!”