"I thought you might be sick and so I dropped in to see you," he said.
"I am very glad you came," replied Drysdale. "I have been a little unwell, and I need some one to cheer me up."
"Let us take a short walk," said Andrews; "the exercise will do you good."
As they strolled out, Andrews pointed to some blood and said:
"Any one hurt in your house?"
"No—yes—that is, nothing serious; one of my negroes cut his hand this morning," replied Drysdale, shuddering. "I can't look at blood without feeling sick," he explained, as he saw that Andrews was wondering at his agitation.
As they continued their walk, Andrews noticed that Drysdale was very self-absorbed, and so they strolled down the street without conversing. Their course took them past the bank, and as Mr. McGregor was standing on the steps of the side entrance, he accosted them heartily.
"Why, how do you do, gentlemen?" he asked. "Won't you walk in for a few minutes? I havn't seen you since your illness, Mr. Drysdale; won't you come in and rest a while?"
On hearing McGregor's salutation, Drysdale started as if stung, and trembled violently. He had been walking along with his eyes down, so that he had not seen Mr. McGregor until spoken to.
"No, thank you," he replied; "I think I won't have time—that is, I promised my wife to come back soon. You must excuse me this time."