“You see—a—I feel a little queer now and then about the head—that is all—and I do not care to bother others with coming to see me. Perhaps you may know that feeling of all-goneness, as I call it?”
“And what are you doing for it?” I asked.
“Aha!” he exclaimed; “curiously enough I have just come across a short passage in this book that fits your question. Do you mind listening to it?”
He took up the book and read this sentence:
“How hard it is, my dear brother, to recover a little strength when one has become accustomed to one’s weakness; and how much it costs to fight for victory when one has long found delight in allowing one’s self to be conquered!”
I took out a pencil and paper and asked him to read it again in order that I might write it down.
“And who is the author?” I asked.
“Oh dear!” said he, “you are like all the rest. What difference does it make who says a thing, so long as it is good? And what difference does it make how great a man is so long as he says things which are not good.”
Hereupon he reached over to a little reading table at the head of his bed upon which was a single tumbler full to the brim of a thick mixture. He raised it and drank the contents. I imagined that the man was taking some medicine and that he felt ill. I made an apology for my intrusion and took my leave.
During this brief call Dunlevy maintained a dignity that was impenetrable. He had the power to impose respect for himself at all times, and to do so unconsciously.