the bottom of the hill. There was no blood in his face, and his tan showed livid; he was haggard as if he had been ill for some weeks.
“Whatever’s the matter?” I said. “Where’s Lettie?”
“She’s gone home,” he answered, and the sound of his own voice, and the meaning of his own words made him heave.
“Why?” I asked in alarm.
He looked at me as if to say “What are you talking about? I cannot listen!”
“Why?” I insisted.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
“They are waiting tea for you,” I said.
He heard me, but took no notice.
“Come on,” I repeated, “there’s Meg and everybody waiting tea for you.”
“I don’t want any,” he said.
I waited a minute or two. He was violently sick.
“Vae meum
Fervens difficile bile tumet jecur”
I thought to myself.
When the sickness passed over, he stood up away from the post, trembling, and lugubrious. His eyelids drooped heavily over his eyes, and he looked at me, and smiled a faint, sick smile.
“Come and lie down in the loft.” I said, “and I’ll tell them you’ve got a bilious bout.”
He obeyed me, not having energy to question; his strength had gone, and his splendid physique seemed shrunken; he walked weakly. I looked away from him, for in his feebleness he was already beginning to feel ludicrous.
