“Yes, my Lord,” interposed Terry, as he laid his hand on his forehead in token of the seat of his calamity.
“It is too gross,—it is outrageous,—but Dunn shall hear of it,—Dunn shall deal with this fellow when he comes back. I 'm sorry for you, Driscoll,—very sorry indeed; it is a sad bereavement, and though you are not exactly a case for an asylum,—perhaps, indeed, you might have objections to an asylum—”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“Well, in that case private friends are, I opine—private friends—and the kind sympathies of those who have known you—eh, don't you think so?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“That is the sensible view to take of it. I am glad you see it in this way. It shows that you really exercise a correct judgment,—a very wise discretion in your case,—and for a man in your situation—your painful situation—you see things in their true light.”
“Yes, my Lord.” And this time the eyes rolled with a most peculiar expression.
“If you should relapse, however,—if, say, former symptoms were to threaten again,—remember that I am on the committee, or a governor, or something or other, of one of these institutions, and I might be of use to you. Remember that, Driscoll.” And with a wave of his hand his Lordship dismissed Terry, who, after a series of respectful obeisances, gained the door and disappeared.