Perkins looked at him curiously, his head well to one side and his chubby hands buried in the depths of his trousers pockets.
“I say—what's up? Aren't you happy?”
“I am blue, and not so decent as I should be. I am always and everlastingly thinking of myself. I am wretched—but you know what's wrong with me, so don't discuss it. I can't stand it.”
“As you prefer, Philip. Still, don't you believe it will be all right in the end?”
“It's not the future that troubles me. It's what may occur while I am flat on my back. I am fairly desperate!”
Perkins gazed at him sorrowfully. Philip added:
“I can't seem very generous to you when I flop into the dumps on no greater provocation than seeing those who are contented and at peace. My nature is not sweetened by adversity, it's being pickled in it.” He struck the floor savagely with the heel of his shoe. “I feel like running off from everything, and if I could include my miserable self among what I left behind, I'd not remain undecided.”
“I hope you won't go any place, Philip!” Perkins said in alarm. “What the dickens will become of me? It will be absolutely forsaken when Franz and Margaret go.”
“You will see all you want of me. I shall unquestionably stay for a time at least.”
“Why—have you been actually thinking of leaving?”