Jimmy, who was already climbing into the dog-cart, did not answer until the question was repeated, then, "Yes," he said rather unwillingly. "I've been over to Paris for two or three days."
The doctor drew his ragged-looking grey eyebrows down until they formed almost a straight line. "The old game," he growled.
The young man was staring away over the hedge at the sweep of country beyond, and replied without looking round. "Yes, as you say, the old game—the inevitable game, if you like that better. The only difference being that it was liqueur brandy this time instead of whisky."
"Silly fool." The doctor was not noted for his gentle speech. "Silly fool, you know what I told you, that it means death in your case, with perhaps a spell of lunacy first—that is, if you're not really a lunatic already. You had better get some other medical man to attend you next time." He slashed at an overhanging bough with his frayed old whip, and apparently the action relieved him, for he went on in a very different voice, "How's the book getting on? Is it published yet?"
"It's coming out next week," Jimmy answered. "I got an advance copy to-day. They've bound it and made it up rather nicely."
The doctor nodded. "So they ought to. It's good stuff, but you would never have written it at all if it hadn't been for me." The thought seemed to bring back his grievances, for he went on querulously, "Why do you always go to Paris or Brussels or some place like that? Can't you find enough bad liquor and bad company in London, at far less cost?"
Jimmy flushed. "Look here, Gregg," he began angrily, then broke off with a bitter laugh. "I suppose I've no right to take offence at you, after all. I never go to London, haven't been there for a year, I loathe the place."
"Bad memories, eh?" The doctor jerked the words out as he guided his horse past a big dray.
"Bad memories," Jimmy assented wearily. "The worst of bad memories."