He hesitated a moment. Then:

“Sick?” he queried. “No, indeed. But⁠—I’ll tell you. Since a few days I’ve had,” he put his fingers to his forehead between his eyes, “I’ve had a queer sensation right there. It comes and goes.”

“A headache?”

“N-no. It’s hard to describe. A sort of numbness. Sometimes it’s as though there was a heavy iron cap⁠—a helmet on my head. And sometimes it⁠—I don’t know it seems as if there were fog, or something or other, inside. I’ll take a good long rest this summer, as soon as we can get away. Another month or six weeks, and I’ll have things shipshape and so as I can leave them. Then we’ll go up to Geneva, and, by Jingo, I’ll loaf.” He was silent for a moment, frowning, passing his hand across his forehead and winking his eyes. Then, with a return of his usual alertness, he looked at his watch.

“Hi!” he exclaimed. “I must be off. I won’t be home to dinner tonight. But you can expect me by eight o’clock, sure. I promise I’ll be here on the minute.”