“Be a man, then, for once, sir; put on your hat and accompany me,” cried Grounsell.
“Would you have me break an appointment, doctor?”
“Ay, to be sure I would, sir,—at least, such an appointment as I suspect yours to be. This may be a case of life or death.”
“How very dreadful!” said Jekyl, settling his curls at the glass. “Pascal compares men to thin glass phials, with an explosive powder within them, and really one sees the force of the similitude every day; but Jean Paul improves upon it by saying that we are all burning-glasses of various degrees of density, so that our passions ignite at different grades of heat.”
“Mine are not very far from the focal distance at this moment,” said Grounsell, with savage energy; “so fetch your hat, sir, at once, or—”
“Unless I prefer a cap, you were going to add,” interposed Jekyl, with a sweet smile.
“We must use speed, sir, or we shall be too late,” rejoined the doctor.
“I flatter myself few men understand a rapid toilet better,” said Jekyl, rising from the table; “so if you'll amuse yourself with 'Bell's Life,' 'Punch,' or Jules Janin, for five minutes, I 'm your man.”
“I can be company for myself for that space, sir,” said the other, gruffly, and turned to the window; while Jekyl, disappearing behind the drapery that filled the doorway, was heard humming an opera air from within.
Grounsell was in no superlative mood of good temper with the world, nor would he have extended to the section of it he best knew the well-known eulogy on the “Bayards.” “Swindlers,” “Rakes,” and “Vagabonds” were about the mildest terms of the vocabulary he kept muttering to himself, while a grumbling thunder-growl of malediction followed each. The very aspect of the little chamber seemed to offer food for his anger; the pretentious style of its decoration jarred and irritated him, and he felt a wish to smash bronzes and brackets and statues into one common ruin.