"You don't seem able to remove these symptoms," said Chesney, with his slight, mocking grin.
"I can't—unless you help me. It's in your own hands, you know. You've always reminded me of a lion, Chesney. Now you make me think of a lion that gnaws off its own paw to get out of a trap."
"On the contrary," said Cecil, laughing that silent laugh of his, "I'm in fine fighting trim, I assure you. Wait—here's a bit of verse on the subject:
"'The lion and the eunuch were fighting for a prize,
The lion beat the eunuch, for all he was so wise.'"
Bellamy looked at him with undiminished composure.
"Ah, Chesney—you're in a bad way," he said regretfully.
"What the hell do you mean by that?" demanded Cecil, flaring up.
"You try to insult the man who's trying to help you," replied Bellamy. "But an ill man can't insult a physician. Good-morning."
And he went away.
Three days passed. Chesney was very reasonable for him. Drank the "slops" that were served him without demur—went for drives when the weather permitted. The days were murky with ravelled cloud held up in a network of pale sunshine. Nearly every afternoon and in the night fine showers came hissing on the leaves and over the roof of Dynehurst. He read a great deal. He had given up his heavy political reading, and begun a course of Wilkie Collins.