“Well, ye-es; I should say he was very bad.”
“What’s the matter? Has he caught some fever?”
“No. Oh dear, no! It’s mental. He seems a good deal unstrung. A little off his head, perhaps.”
“Why, curse it all, Thompson,” cried Candlish excitedly; “you don’t mean that the blackguard is going mad?”
“My dear Sir Thomas—my dear Sir Thomas,” said the lawyer, in a voice full of protestation; “I really cannot sit here and listen to you calling my cousin a blackguard.”
“Then stand up, man, and hear it. He is a blackguard, and I hate him, and I’d say it to his face if he were here. Now tell me, is he really bad?”
“Only a temporary attack. He is suffering, I’m afraid, from overstudy. But now to business.”
“Stop a minute, man: let me think. Hang the business! How much is it? I’ll write you a cheque. I can now, Thompson, old chap. Times are altered, eh?”
“Ah, and for the better, Sir Thomas.”
“Here, hold your tongue. Don’t talk. Let me see: not married; neither chick nor child; no brother. Why, Thompson, if North—curse him!—died, you’d have the Manor House!”