“What blow?” inquired Mizzlemist, looking sagely adown his waistcoat.
“Singled out! How,—what for? Humph?” growled Bones.
“A mountain on his head! What’s the mountain about?” asked Thrush.
“Excellent, worthy creature! An Atlas in calamity! And none of us to know it,” cried Candituft.—“My dear madam, what is it—what has Mr. Jericho had to suffer?”
“Why, riches”—answered Mrs. Jericho, a little surprised at the dullness of her councillors.
“Oh!” exclaimed the friends, feeling at once sympathetic and rebuked.
“The sudden load of wealth was enough to crush any brain: and though—dear Solomon!—for a time stood up like a hero beneath the shock; still, I do fear, it has been too much for that fine web of reason, as, Doctor Stubbs, I think I’ve heard you call the brain.”—
“Never, madam,” cried Stubbs hastily; “could not possibly have done it. For the brain is not a web, but a series of convolutions, divided into two hemispheres, that”—
“To be sure; that is exactly what you said,” rejoined Mrs. Jericho. “Well, then, I’m afraid of the hemispheres.”
“In a word, and to come at once to business,” said Mizzlemist, who for some time had shifted in his chair, as though he had sat on lumps of pounce—“in a word, madam, it is your opinion that your husband—our unfortunate friend—is at the present time incapable of controlling his own affairs?”