Stratton looked round in a furtive, frightened way, shuddered, and was silent.
“Then I am to go and send others who will treat you. I must tell you the truth, lad; they may insist upon your leaving here and taking up your abode somewhere in the country.”
Stratton started.
“No, no; not at a madhouse. You are not mad. Only suffering from a nervous fit. It would be to stay for a time at some doctor’s, and I think it would be the best thing. It would get you away from the dull, gloomy chambers, where you hardly ever see the sun. They are bad enough to upset anyone. Once more, which is it to be?”
Guest had been startled enough before by his friend’s acts and ways; his conduct now indorsed all prior thoughts of his state. For, as he rose and moved toward the door as if to go, Stratton sprang to him and caught his arm.
“I give in,” he said huskily. “You are right. A little out of order. Nerves, I suppose. But no doctor. There is no need. I’ll—I’ll do everything you wish.”
“Then you’ll come abroad with me?”
“No. No, I cannot. I will not.”
“Very well, then, I’m not going to see you grow worse before my eyes. I shall do as I said.”
“No, no, for Heaven’s sake, don’t be so mad as to do that. Look here, Guest. I am ill, and weak, and low. I confess it, but I shall be better here. It is as you say, overstrain. If you force me to go somewhere else, I shall be ten times worse. I’ll do anything you advise, yield to you in every way, but I must stay here. The institution, you know.”