North started as if he had been stung, but he did not uncover his face; and he dared not speak, lest words should gush forth for which he could not hold himself accountable—and to Mrs Milt!
Under the circumstances, he nodded his head quickly, and lay back with his eyes closed.
“You do too much, sir,” said the housekeeper, speaking authoritatively. “You work too hard.”
North’s irritability was terrible, but he kept it down.
“It’s my impression that you’re going to be ill,” continued Mrs Milt, as she went on clearing the table.
Strange words seemed to be effervescing in Horace North’s breast, and he set his teeth hard, for he felt that if he spoke he should say something which would horrify the old housekeeper and startle himself.
“Well, you can’t blame me,” cried Mrs Milt, going out and shutting the door too sharply to be polite.
North was alone, and he rose up with his hands clenched to utter words of wonder as to what his friend would think; but, instead, he burst into a curious fit of laughter and uttered a mocking curse.
The next moment he had sunk back upon his couch with his hands clasped, as he gazed with bent head straight before him between his thick brows, right away into the future, and mentally asking himself what that future was to be.