Bolus laughed his little dry laugh, and began to air his palms again.
“And you have a troublesome little cough, and now and then your head aches without your being able to assign a cause why it should do so; and frequently in the night you start up in your sleep from some feeling of agitation or alarm—causeless, of course, but very real just for the moment?”
“By Jove, doctor, you read me like a book!”
“Did you think of going down to Doncaster this year?” asked Bolus, as he wheeled suddenly round on Kester.
“I certainly did think of doing so. I’ve not missed a St. Leger for many years.”
“Then I wouldn’t go if I were you.”
St. George stared at him with a soft of sullen surprise. “And why would you not go if you were me?” he asked, sharply.
“Simply because what you want is not excitement, but rest. And in your case, St. George, I would live as quiet a life as possible for some time to come. Down in the country, you know—farming and that sort of thing.”
“I know nothing of farming, and I hate the country, except during the shooting season.”
“Ah, by-the-by, that’s another thing you must give up—tramping after the partridges—for this one season at least. As I said before, what you want is quietude. Half a guinea on the odd trick is the only form of excitement on which you may venture for some time to come. And harkye—a word in your ear: not quite so many club cigars, my dear friend.”