Roy laughed rather consciously, and then gave vent to a sigh. "Oh, dear, I don't like this chair. Not half so much as the sofa. It makes me tired. I wish nobody ever had the small-pox. When shall I be all right again, I wonder? I do hate being ill such a tremendously long time."
Denham picked him up bodily, as if he had been an infant, carried him across, and deposited him where he had been before.
"You have done about enough for one day. Oh, you will soon be well now; no fear! And you may count yourself fortunate, not to have been much worse. Yours has been a slight attack, compared with what many people have."
"I don't call it slight. I call it a most beastly horrid illness. Den, when shall we go home? I want Molly."
Denham took a seat by his side.
"I am not sure. It may not be just yet."
"Why not? I thought we were going as soon as ever we could."
"As soon as possible; yes. The question is, how soon that will be. Some of us are not able to go yet; but I am hoping that your father will send you home, and not let you wait for him and me."
"Why, Den?" Roy twisted round to gaze in astonishment. "Why, Den! I thought you were all waiting, only just till I should get over this. I didn't know there was anything else. Is there anything else? Has something happened? Do tell me."
"You and your mother are free to go back to England, as soon as she is willing to do so. Your father and I are not free."