“‘O, that this too too solid flesh would melt!’” he gasped presently, pausing in a state of semi-collapse.
He groaned, wrung his brow, and squatting, sunk upon himself like an unbaked cottage loaf, heaved a dismal sigh and looked up.
“Since we are established on these very intimate and confidential terms,” he said, “tell me frankly, how does my size strike you?”
“All of a heap,” said Gilead shortly.
The other moaned.
“But less of a heap than when you first entered—O, yes! be candid and admit it.”
“Why, surely,” began Gilead, with some indignation, “you are not expecting—”
“When one is excruciatingly conscious of his every ounce avoirdupois,” interrupted Mr Wyllie miserably, “he knows, if it is no more than a button that has burst off his waistcoat. Something, however insignificant, has gone. The question is, how long will it take to run off the whole?”
“More than a week,” said Gilead. “You’ll have to hire another yard—several yards; or else adopt other means.”
“It is strange,” said Mr Wyllie, almost weeping, “that the canker of a corroding conscience should, instead of devouring, blow some men out!”