'How's your friend the colonel to-day?' his father asked, willing to make sure where his son had been.
'He thinks he is dying,' Pitt answered, in no very good humour.
'He has been thinking that for the last two years.'
'Do you suppose there is anything in it?'
'Nothing but megrims. He's hipped, that's all. If he had some work to do—that he must do, I mean—it's my belief he would be a well man to-day; and know it, too.'
'He honestly thinks he's dying. Slowly, of course, but surely.'
'Pity he ever left the army,' said Mrs. Dallas. 'He is one of those men who don't bear to be idle.'
'That's all humankind!' said her husband. 'Nobody bears to be idle.
Can't do it without running down.'
'Still,' said Pitt thoughtfully, 'you cannot tell. A man ought to be the best judge of his own feelings; and perhaps Colonel Gainsborough is ill, as he says.'
'What are you going to do about it?' said his father with a half sneer.