“All serene,” said Wraysford, not very cheerily, though. “Anything’s better than doing nothing.”
“Why, Wray, I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get down about it?”
“I thought you weren’t going to let yourself get up—why, you’re quite festive this morning.”
“Well, you see, a fellow can’t do better than his best, and so as I have done my best I don’t mean to punish myself by getting in the blues.”
“Pity you didn’t make that resolution yesterday. You were awfully glum, you know, then; and now I’ve got my turn, you see.”
“Oh, never mind, a plunge in the Shar will set you all right.”
“Stee,” said he, addressing his younger brother, who at that moment entered proudly in his new capacity as Wraysford’s fag, “mind you have breakfast ready sharp by eight, do you hear? the best you can get out of Wray’s cupboard. Come along, old boy.”
And so they went down to the river, Oliver in unusually good spirits, and Wraysford most unusually depressed and nervous. The bathe was not a great success, for Wraysford evidently did not enjoy it.
“What’s wrong, old man?” said Oliver, as they walked back, “aren’t you well?”
“I’m all right,” said Wraysford.