“Oh, nonsense, man!” cried Oldroyd, speaking with energy. “You work too hard. I am sure you do.”
“I am obliged,” said Alleyne gravely. “It is the only rest I have.”
He seemed to be growing more animated already, and to be fully awakened to the presence of his friend, for his next words possessed more energy, when, in reply to a little more persuasion, he exclaimed,—
“Don’t ask me, Oldroyd. I have, I tell you, too much to do.”
It seemed useless to press him further, and the doctor felt that it would be unwise, perhaps, to say more, so he took a seat and waited for Alleyne to speak again, apparently like any idler who might have called, but really observant of him all the time.
It was a curious study the manner in which these two men bore their trouble. Each was a student in a different field, and each had sought relief in his own particular subject, with the result that the one had grown old and careworn and neglectful of self in a few weeks, while the other was only more grave and energetic than before.
It may have been that the love of one was deeper than that of the other, though that was doubtful. It rather seemed to be that while Alleyne was cut to the heart by the bitterness of the rebuff that he had met, a certain amount of resentment against one whom he looked upon as a light and trivial flirt had softened Oldroyd’s blow.
But, to the latter’s surprise, his friend and patient made no further remark. He sat gazing at vacancy for a few moments, and then allowed his head to rest once more upon his hand, as if about to go to sleep; but at the first movement made by Oldroyd he looked up again, and replaced the shade upon his lamp.
“Life is so short,” he said, with a grave smile; “time goes so very fast, Oldroyd, I must get on. You will excuse me, I know.”
“Yes, I must be getting on as well. I shall call in upon you oftener than I have lately. You will perhaps come out with me again sometimes.”