There was a peculiar charm in his manner, a mingling of gravity and kindliness, which was infinitely attractive.
“You’ve got a wonderful bed-side manner,” Philip murmured, closing his eyes with a smile.
Griffiths shook out his pillow for him, deftly smoothed down the bedclothes, and tucked him up. He went into Philip’s sitting-room to look for a siphon, could not find one, and fetched it from his own room. He drew down the blind.
“Now, go to sleep and I’ll bring the old man round as soon as he’s done the wards.”
It seemed hours before anyone came to Philip. His head felt as if it would split, anguish rent his limbs, and he was afraid he was going to cry. Then there was a knock at the door and Griffiths, healthy, strong, and cheerful, came in.
“Here’s Doctor Deacon,” he said.
The physician stepped forward, an elderly man with a bland manner, whom Philip knew only by sight. A few questions, a brief examination, and the diagnosis.
“What d’you make it?” he asked Griffiths, smiling.
“Influenza.”
“Quite right.”