‘Then there’s nothing I can do for you?’
‘Nothing at all, thank you, Judith.’
He still sat in front of the writing-table, leaning his head on his hand and looking at her with a curious hard expression. Presently he rubbed his eyes with an impatient gesture, as if they hurt him; bent his head rather drearily and started to draw figures on the blotter.
‘You oughtn’t to try to write if your eyes hurt you. You ought to rest.’
‘I have been resting.’ He jerked his head in the direction of the old capacious nursery sofa, whose tumbled cushions still bore the impress of his body. ‘I got sick of it. I had some letters to write, so I thought I’d better get them done. I’m going away to-morrow or the day after.’
‘Back to Paris?’
‘No. To Scotland with my mother.’ His eyes twinkled for a minute. ‘She thinks I need a holiday.’
To Scotland with his mother. Why did not he say, like Martin: ‘I want you to meet her?’
She came and stood beside him.
‘Well, I must go now.’ She could not keep the utter wretchedness out of her voice. ‘I only came to see how you were.’