“You will, sir. These are my rooms; your visit is ill timed; please to go, and wait till I ask you to visit me again.”
“Hah, that settles it, if there were any doubt before. That’s not my old schoolfellow talking. You are ill—mentally ill, lad—so give in.”
“Leave my rooms, sir!”
“If I do, it will be to bring others back with me who will insist upon your yielding to proper treatment.”
“Hah, you confess then? You think me mad.”
“I did not say mad; I told you what I know now to be a fact. Will you give in and let me treat you on sound, common-sense principles, or drive me away to come back with others?”
“You would not dare,” said Stratton, in a low, fierce whisper.
“But I do dare anything for your sake—there, I’ll speak out!—for Myra’s.”
A spasm convulsed Stratton’s face, and he ground his teeth as if in agony.
“I can’t help it, lad; I’m being cruel to be kind. Now, then, do you persist in sending me away!”