"Perhaps not; but I never think of women now--not even of a possible wife. Matrimony is a luxury a poor man must dispense with, if he wants to get on. I have dispensed with every blessed thing short of the bare necessities of existence, yet I don't get any reward. Every dog has his day, they say: but the day of this poor cur never seems to dawn."
"You are more bitter than usual, Ellis."
"Because I am sick of my life. You have some compensations, Harry, in connection with that newspaper you write for. You mix with your fellow-men; you exchange ideas; you have your finger on the pulse of civilisation. But I sit in this dismal room, or walk about this B[oe]otian neighbourhood, in the vain hope of getting a start. I can't rush out and drag in someone to be dosed; I can't go from house to house soliciting patients. I can only wait wait, wait; until I feel inclined to blow my brains out."
"If you did that, Bob, the folly of the act would prove that you have none," said Cass. "Come, old man, buck up; something is sure to turn up when you least expect it."
"Then nothing will turn up, for I am always in a state of expectation. I wish I hadn't set up my tent at Dukesfield, Harry. It is the healthiest London suburb I know: no one seems ill, and the graveyard is almost empty. I don't believe people ever fall sick or die in this salubrious spot."
Cass ran his fingers through a shock of bronze-coloured hair, and laughed at this professional view of the situation. "Haven't you seen any likely patient?" he asked, in his most sympathetic manner.
"Not one!" rejoined Ellis, sitting down and relighting his pipe. "Oh, yes, by the way, that young Moxton."
"Who the deuce is he?"
"A young ass I have met several times in the underground train, and with whom I have had some conversation at various times."
"Why do you call him an ass?"