“The reason, sir—the motive!—the why!—the wherefore—the what it is all to end in. The bottom!”
“Why not say you would like to read John Meadows' heart?”
“Don't be angry, sir; it is presumption, but I can't help it. Deduct twenty per cent for so great a honor.”
“Why, the fool is in earnest.”
“He is; we have all got our little vanity, and like to be thought worthy of confidence.”
“Humph!”
“And then I can't sleep for puzzling. Why should you stop every letter that comes here from Australia. Oh, bless me, how neglectful I am; here is a letter from there, just come. To think of me bringing it, and then forgetting.”
“Give it me, directly.”
“There it is. And then, why on earth are we ruining old Mr. Merton without benefiting you? and you seem so friendly with him; and indeed, you say he is not to be harmed—only ruined; it makes my head ache. Why, what is the matter, Mr. Meadows, sir? What is wrong? No ill news, I hope. I wish I'd never brought the letter.”
“That will do, Crawley,” said Meadows, faintly, “you may go.”