Of all forms of property their
respective healths naturally concerned them most.
"I'm very well in myself," proceeded James, "but my nerves are out of
order. The least thing worries me to death. I shall have to go to Bath."
"Bath!" said Nicholas. "I've tried Harrogate. That's no good. What I
want is sea air. There's nothing like Yarmouth. Now, when I go there I
sleep...."
"My liver's very bad," interrupted Swithin slowly. "Dreadful pain here;"
and he placed his hand on his right side.
"Want of exercise," muttered James, his eyes on the china. He quickly
added: "I get a pain there, too."
Swithin reddened, a resemblance to a turkey-cock coming upon his old
face.
"Exercise!" he said. "I take plenty: I never use the lift at the Club."
"I didn't know," James hurried out. "I know nothing about anybody;
nobody tells me anything...."
Swithin fixed him with a stare:
"What do you do for a pain there?"
James brightened.
"I take a compound...."
"How are you, uncle?"
June stood before him, her resolute small face raised from her little
height to his great height, and her hand outheld.
The brightness faded from James's visage.
"How are you?" he said, brooding over her. "So you're going to Wales
to-morrow to visit your young man's aunts? You'll have a lot of rain
there.
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