“Ill? Who is ill?” said North wonderingly. “Oh, I see! Well, I am.”
“Yes, that’s plain enough,” said Salis anxiously. “My dear fellow, you are not at all up to the mark.”
“Not up to the mark, old chap? Right as the mail! Here, come in, and have some breakfast.”
This was said with so much boisterous, coarse jollity, that the curate could not help a wondering look. North saw it, and his countenance assumed a look of intense pain.
“Did you want me?” he said, closing the breakfast-room door, and speaking in a different tone entirely.
“Well, old fellow, I thought I’d run over just to consult you.”
“Not ill?” said North, in a voice full of anxiety, but only to supplement it with a sharp, back-handed blow in the chest, and exclaim, in quite a rollicking way: “See! you! I say, you’re in tip-top condition!” And then he burst into a hearty roar.
“I don’t know about tip-top condition,” said Salis tartly, “for I’m not at all well. I’m a good deal bothered, old fellow, about—about some matters; and you’ll not mind my coming to see you about things that one would not go to a doctor about, but to a friend.”
“I am very, very glad to have you come to me as a friend, Salis,” said North earnestly. “Anything I can do I—is it money?”
“Money? Tut—tut! No! When did you ever know me a borrower, man? I beg your pardon, North,” he added, beaming at his friend. “That’s just like you—so good and thoughtful; but no, no—no money! Old Polonius was right.”