“So it is, by Jove! I am always thankful for it. And you—how do you get on? You look well.”
“Do I?” said he, faintly, and pushing back his hair with an almost fine-ladylike affectation. “I 'm glad you say so. It always rallies me a little to hear I 'm better. You had my letter about the fish?”
“Ay, and I'll give you such a treat.”
“No, no, my dear Harcourt; a fried mackerel, or a whiting and a few crumbs of bread,—nothing more.”
“If you insist, it shall be so; but I promise you I'll not be of your mess, that's all. This is a glorious spot for turbot—and such oysters!”
“Oysters are forbidden me, and don't let me have the torture of temptation. What a charming place this seems to be!—very wild, very rugged.”
“Wild—rugged! I should think it is,” muttered Harcourt.
“This pathway, though, does not bespeak much care. I wish our friend yonder would hold his lantern a little lower. How I envy you the kind of life you lead here,—so tranquil, so removed from all bores! By the way, you get the newspapers tolerably regularly?”
“Yes, every day.”
“That's all right. If there be a luxury left to any man after the age of forty, it is to be let alone. It's the best thing I know of. What a terrible bit of road! They might have made a pathway.”