The young doctor bore the scrutiny of those glittering, ironical points of eyes with commendable professional stolidity.
“It is,” said he, and in saying it he had the young practitioner’s horrible conviction that he had lost an influential new patient. But Clementina stretched out her hand. He took it very gladly.
“I like you,” she said, “because you’re not afraid to talk sense. Now I’ll do whatever you tell me.”
“Go away for a complete change—anywhere will do—and don’t think of work for a month at the very least.”
“All right,” said Clementina.
When Tommy, looking very much the worse for his relapse, came in the next day to report himself in robust health once more, Clementina acquainted him with her own bodily infirmities. It was absurd, she declared, that she should break down, but absurdity was the guiding principle of this comic planet. Holiday was ordained. She had spent a sleepless night thinking how she should make it. Dawn had brought solution of the problem. Why not make it in fantastic fashion, harmonising with the absurd scheme of things?
“What are you going to do?” asked Tommy. “Spend a frolicsome month in Whitechapel, or put on male attire and go for a soldier?”
“I shall hire an automobile and motor about France.”
“It’s sporting enough,” said Tommy, judicially, “but I should hardly call it fantastic.”
“Wait till you’ve heard the rest,” said Clementina. “I had originally intended to take Etta Concannon with me; but since you’ve come here looking like three-ha’porth of misery, I’ve decided to take you.”