“Not that I have heard.”
“I wonder at it, for until this morning I’ve felt half my time as if I were in a nightmare.”
“Look here; the doctor said that you were to be kept perfectly quiet, and that I was not to encourage you to talk.”
“Good old man. Well, I’m as quiet as a mouse, and you are not going to encourage me to talk. I haven’t felt inclined to, either, since I got back. I don’t suppose it has been so, but I’ve felt as if all the veins in my head were swollen up, and it has made me stupid and strange, and as if I couldn’t say what I wanted, and I haven’t tried to speak for fear I should wander away. But I say, Bob, did I go in to see Roby lying wounded when I came back?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, then that wasn’t imagination. It’s like something seen through a mist. It has all been like looking through glass cloudy and thick over since we rushed the Boers.”
“Look here,” said Dickenson, rising; “I must go now.”
“Nonsense; you’ve only just come. Sit down, man; you won’t hurt me. Do me good.—That’s right. I want to ask you something.”
“No, no; you’d better not talk.”
“What nonsense! I’m beginning to suffer now from what fine people call ennui. Not much in my way, old fellow. You’re doing me good. I say, look here. Something has been bothering me like in my dreams. You say I did go in to see poor Roby?”