“He preferred red,” answered Dunlevy, “because his books were not read.”
The bell rang for nine o’clock lectures; and Dunlevy and I were left alone.
That was the last time we had breakfast together at the University of Virginia. Dunlevy had overtaxed himself by his work in the School of Philosophy, and broke down in health.
All of us knew where he lived, even if none of us had seen the inside of his quarters. He rented the ground floor of an old private residence which was situated just beyond the University limits. It was set upon a knoll, and from this point one could obtain a clear view of Monticello, the home of Jefferson. I presumed so much upon my slight acquaintance with Dunlevy as to deem it a simple duty to go to see him. I was ushered into his chamber by an old negro servant who had not succeeded in intercepting me. I found Dunlevy propped up in bed, reading a book. He laid it across his chest open, and looked at me as though he could not believe my presence.
“Why, you have come to see me, haven’t you?” he said. The poor man seemed to beam at the thought that some one had actually come to call upon him.
“I heard that you were sick.”
“And did you let the gentleman in, Sandy?” he asked of the negro, at the same time trying to conceal a frown from me.
“Maarstar, don’t you say I done it. He say he be a doctor and was sent for!”
“My trick succeeded even if it was impudent;” I said.
Dunlevy was confused.