'My chest,' with a sound of contempt.
'If not your chest, what?'
'My—myself. The Everlasting Everything,' said Lance, with a sort of impatience, covering his face with his hands, as though—had twenty years been subtracted from his age—he would have begun to cry.
'My dear boy,' said the Doctor, 'never mind me. Have it out. You don't like to complain to your brother, and you can't stand the life you are leading?'
'No use to say can't,' said Lance, looking up, with his brow contracted; 'I must and I will, if I am to get well. I got over it before, and I shall again, I suppose, when my strength comes back. I made my bed, and must lie on it.'
'You mean that you chose your present business?' said the Doctor, trying another leading question.
'Ay. My brothers, as soon as they could, both offered me to go to the University and take Holy Orders! but, as Clem said, my hurdy-gurdy was a new toy, and I was as proud as Punch of it, and thought life offered nothing better; besides, I was always a dolt at classics, and thought they would split my head.'
'Are you ever reminded of that sun-stroke?'
'Less every year; but summer sunshine still makes me sick and giddy, and now and then extra work brings on a racking headache.'
'Take my word, your instinct was right. You could not have stood college work.'