"All the better. A more wretched lot of impostors than the Beachbourne doctors I never came across. For years they've been tinkering at me, and, after all, I'm worse, instead of better. What are doctors for, if they can't cure one?"
Harold was discreetly silent. Sir Edward had a complication of maladies, beyond any medical skill to remedy.
"My father lived to be ninety," continued the invalid. "And why can't I?"
"I don't think, for my part, I should wish to be so old as that," diffidently returned Harold. "It must be so sad to outlive all one's friends."
"I have no friends," was the grim reply. "Only some greedy relations, eager for my money. I've a good deal to leave," he added, looking keenly at Harold. "And when I take a fancy to people, I'm liberal——They say here that I'm always quarrelling with my doctors; but it's the doctors who quarrel with me, and will air their own particular fads, instead of trying to cure me. Are you married?" he asked abruptly.
"No."
"A good thing, too; you've more time to attend to your patients. Hewett used to bore me talking by the hour about that ugly wife of his. Do you understand fossils, and such things? My room's in an awful mess, as you see, and I should like to have the specimens arranged a bit; but I can't trust the servants."
The place was indeed crammed with all sorts of curios, many exceedingly valuable. By continually asking for one possession after another, Sir Edward had ended by accumulating all his treasures in this one room, which he never left, save for his bedchamber adjoining. A most untidy place it was; the curiosities being heaped on chairs, shelves, and the floor, without any method.
"I am very fond of fossils; and if you wish them arranged, it would give me great pleasure to help."
"Hewett wanted me to make a clean sweep of them; interfered with the flow of his precious fresh air. Like his ignorance! Did he think I wanted to sit and stare at an ugly wall-paper all day when I was tired of reading?"