“SIDNEY CHALLONER. “P.S.--Your Aunt Clara, I am sorry to say, is in bed with a sharp attack of influenza.” Martin read this through twice before he got up; then he dressed, his cold bath making him shiver, and went downstairs. The sight of his own face in the looking-glass, as he brushed his hair, was somehow rather a shock to him; it did not look exactly ill, but it was unfamiliar, it looked like the face of somebody else. His uncle was not yet down, and he strolled out on to the terrace, waiting for him, into the warm, windy sunshine of the April morning. But here again he had the same impression of unfamiliarity: the sun did not feel to him the same, nor did the sunshine look the same,--both light and colour had an odd dream-like unreality about them. It was as if some curious, hard barrier had been put up between his sense of perception and that which he perceived. Then, with a feeling of relief, he remembered his father’s postscript. Probably he had influenza, too. That explanation, or the divine freshness of the morning, made him feel rather better, and half-laughing at himself for his vague fear that there was something really wrong with him, he went indoors again. People were coming to stay at Chartries that afternoon, but this morning he and his uncle were alone. Lord Flintshire was already seated at breakfast when he came in. He gave him his father’s letter to read, unconscious that his uncle looked rather closely at him as he entered, being also struck by a curious drawn look in his face, but he said nothing on the subject, and read the letter through. “I think your father is wrong about it,” he said, “and if you approve, I will tell him so. There is surely no need to enter into theological discussion. You want just to see him and shake hands with him.” Martin had taken some fish, but gave it up as a bad job, and drank tea instead. “Yes, just that,” he said. “I hate being on bad terms with anybody, especially him.” Lord Flintshire looked at him again. “The boy’s ill,” he said to himself. Then aloud,--“Well, let us walk over after breakfast, if you feel inclined. You can see Helen while I go in and talk to your father. You don’t look particularly fit this morning, Martin. Anything wrong?” “I feel beastly,” said Martin, with directness. “I shouldn’t wonder if I had got influenza, too.” “Are you sure you feel up to coming over? Yes, your father mentions that Clara has got it. If the doctor is there, he might just have a look at you. Or, if you don’t feel up to coming, I would send him back here.” Martin pulled himself together. The tea had made him feel quite distinctly better. “Oh, no, I’m quite up to it,” he said. “Probably the doctor will tell me to go for a long walk and eat a big dinner. And I should like to see my father as soon as possible, and get it over. It will all be easier after that.” His uncle got up.