No, indeed! No, indeed! You've always worked too hard, and you've been
worrying too much about the boy, who'll do very well now, with care.
You've got to take a rest--it's all you need. You confess to no bad
habits, and show the signs of none; and you have a fine constitution.
I'm going to order you and Phil away for three months, to some mild
climate, where you'll be free from business cares and where the boy
can grow strong without having to fight a raw Eastern spring. You
might try the Riviera, but I'm afraid the sea would be too much for
Phil just yet; or southern California--but the trip is tiresome. The
South is nearer at hand. There's Palm Beach, or Jekyll Island, or
Thomasville, Asheville, or Aiken--somewhere down in the pine country.
It will be just the thing for the boy's lungs, and just the place for
you to rest. Start within a week, if you can get away. In fact, you've
_got_ to get away."
Mr. French was too weak to resist--both body and mind seemed strangely
relaxed--and there was really no reason why he should not go. His work
was done. Kirby could attend to the formal transfer of the business.
He would take a long journey to some pleasant, quiet spot, where he
and Phil could sleep, and dream and ride and drive and grow strong,
and enjoy themselves. For the moment he felt as though he would never
care to do any more work, nor would he need to, for he was rich
enough. He would live for the boy. Phil's education, his health, his
happiness, his establishment in life--these would furnish occupation
enough for his well-earned retirement.
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