Sheaves by E.F. Benson — Read

Peggy had brought her season to an end on the same day on which Hugh had gone down to St. Olaf's, and had retired with the sense of a child home from its holidays to spend a whole week with the children at Cookham, before taking her husband out to Marienbad for three weeks' cure. She had taken Arthur Crowfoot down with her for the Sunday, but he did so much deep breathing (for in the cycle of things that had come up again) and wanted such very extraordinary things to eat that he was as bad as a party in the house. Even that, though she had come down in order to do nothing, she would not have minded, had he not insisted on talking quite continuously about the impossibility of preserving even the semblance of decent health if your diet comprised anything outside nuts, cheese, and brown bread.

Indeed, on Sunday evening, when he had sent for a pair of goloshes to put over his shoes, for they were dining in the tent, and the second thickest of his Angora wool rugs to put over his knees, she clapped her hands in his face.