“No—I found out something; she didn’t tell me.”
“What did you find out?”
“That you let her think me mad!” cried Pocket, in monstrous earnest. He might have laughed at himself, could he have seen his own reproachful face. But he could have killed Baumgartner for laughing at him; it did not occur to him that the laugh was partly one of pure relief.
“Why, my young fellow, how else can I account for you?”
“You said she would think I was a patient.”
“Exactly! A mental case.”
“You had no business to make me out mad,” persisted Pocket, with dogged valour.
“Pardon me! I had all the business in the world; and I beg that you’ll continue to foster the illusion as thoroughly as you did yesterday when I was out. It’s no good shaking your head at me; listen to reason,” continued Baumgartner, with an adroit change of tone. “And try, my good young fellow, do try to think of somebody besides yourself; have some consideration for my niece, if you have none for me.”
Pocket was mystified, but still more incensed; for he felt himself being again put gently but clearly in the wrong.
“And I should like to know,” he cried, “what good it does her to think she’s associating with a lunatic?”