“When,” he continued, seeing that I said nothing, “we began caravaning we could not know how persistently cold and wet it was going to be, but now that we do I must say I feel the responsibility of having persuaded you--or of my sister-in-law’s having persuaded you--to join us.” “But I feel very well,” I repeated. “And so you will, up to the moment when you do not.” Of course that was true. “Rheumatism, now,” he said, shaking his head; “I greatly fear rheumatism for you in the coming winter. And rheumatism once it gets hold of a man doesn’t leave him till it has ravaged each separate organ, including, as everybody knows, that principal organ of all, the heart.” This was gloomy talk, and yet the man was right. The idea that a holiday, a thing planned and looked forward to with so much pleasure, was to end by ravaging my organs did not lighten the leaden atmosphere that surrounded and weighed upon Frogs’ Hole Farm. “I cannot alter the weather,” I said at last--irritably, for I felt ruffled. “No. But I wouldn’t risk it for too long if I were you,” said he. “Why, I have paid for a month,” I exclaimed, surprised that he should overlook this clinching fact. “That, set against an impaired constitution, is a very inconsiderable trifle,” said he. “Not inconsiderable at all,” said I sharply. “Money is money, and I am not one to throw it away. And what about the van? You cannot abandon an entire van at a great distance from the place it belongs to.” “Oh,” said he quickly, “we would see to that.” I got up, for the sight of the glasses full of what I was forced to acknowledge was symbolic truth irritated me. The one representing myself, into which he had put but one drop of milk, was miserably discoloured. I did not like to think of such discolouration being my probable portion, and yet having paid for a month’s caravaning what could I do? The afternoon was chilly and very damp, and I buttoned my wraps carefully about my throat. Menzies-Legh watched me. “Well,” said he, getting up and looking first at me and then at the glasses and then at me again, “what do you think of doing, Baron?” “Going for a little stroll,” I said. And I went. CHAPTER XVII This was a singular conversation.