“I have been to Mr. Jasper’s, sir. With his nephew.”
“Come in.”
The Minor Canon props him by the elbow with a strong hand (in a strictly scientific manner, worthy of his morning trainings), and turns him into his own little book-room, and shuts the door.
“I have begun ill, sir. I have begun dreadfully ill.”
“Too true. You are not sober, Mr. Neville.”
“I am afraid I am not, sir, though I can satisfy you at another time that I have had a very little indeed to drink, and that it overcame me in the strangest and most sudden manner.”
“Mr. Neville, Mr. Neville,” says the Minor Canon, shaking his head with a sorrowful smile; “I have heard that said before.”
“I think—my mind is much confused, but I think—it is equally true of Mr. Jasper’s nephew, sir.”
“Very likely,” is the dry rejoinder.
“We quarrelled, sir. He insulted me most grossly. He had heated that tigerish blood I told you of to-day, before then.”