Eric was still staring at the ceiling when Gaisford came in. The doctor’s moment of ill-temper had passed; and this was a pity, because he would be less preoccupied and more observant.
“Well, my son, and what’s the matter with you?,” he asked.
“I’ve become so extraordinarily limp.” The voice was slow but firm. “The longer I stayed at Lashmar, the limper I got. I wasn’t trying to work, but I couldn’t even walk a couple of miles. It occurred to me that a tonic, perhaps....”
The doctor grunted and fitted the ends of a stethoscope into his ears. The ritual which followed was very familiar to Eric; chest and back, long breath, ordinary breathing, holding the breath, tapping... The stethoscope darted to and fro, as though it were playing a game with some elusive noise inside him; it finished with the heart and began chasing the lungs into improbable corners under the collar-bone and shoulder-blades, dodging back to the heart when it was least expected.
“Lie down. A deep breath,” said Gaisford.
This lying-down portended something serious; or perhaps the doctor was not yet sure. They were always so uncommunicative; you might have a tolerably wide experience of these examinations and yet not know what they were trying to find.
“Anything the matter?,” Eric asked, as the stethoscope was detached and pocketed.
“You’ve not much flesh on you,” said the doctor, feeling his ribs. “Are you eating properly?”
“The usual amount. But you know I never did run to fat.”
“Do you perspire much?”