“Yes, sir.”
It was the rector who spoke, and the sound of his mellow voice roused the young man from his dreaming; therefore, resuming his normal manner, he lighted a cigarette and prepared to listen to the conversation of his old tutor.
“Are you still as good a German scholar as you used to be?” asked the rector deliberately.
“Not quite. My German, like myself, has grown somewhat rusty.”
“Can you translate the word Selbstschmerz?”
“Self-sickness.”
“Yes; that is about as good an English equivalent as can be found. Well, that is what you are suffering from.”
“Oh, wise physician,” retorted Roylands, with irony. “I know the cause of the disease myself, but what of the cure?”
“You must fall in love.”
“No one can fall in love to order.”