Work and worry were plainly having an effect on his health.

His color was bad, his eyes were losing their lustre, and there was a listlessness in his actions that even determined effort could not conceal from his friends.

Little fits of fever annoyed him occasionally and he admitted that he did not feel quite right.
"Something is wrong somewhere," he said, ruefully, "and my whole system seems ready to stop work through sympathy." Suddenly there was a mighty check to the preparations.

Two days before the date set for the ball everything came to a standstill and the managers sank back in perplexity and consternation.

Monty Brewster was critically ill.
Appendicitis, the doctors called it, and an operation was imperative.
"Thank heaven it's fashionable," laughed Monty, who showed no fear of the prospect.