“I do not understand you,” replied the professor quietly.
“Crying wolf, you know. It’s too bad.”
“Really,” said the professor, who was in one of his dreamy, abstracted moods, “you are mistaken, Mr Burne. I did not say a word about a wolf.”
“Well, whoever said you did, man?” cried the lawyer impatiently as he took out his snuff-box and whisked forth a pinch, flourishing some of the fine dry dust about where he stood. “Can’t you, a university man, understand metaphors—shepherd boy calling wolf when there was nothing the matter? The patient’s decidedly better, sir.”
“Really, Mr Burne—er—tchishew—er—tchishew!”
Old Mr Burne stood looking on, smiling grimly, as the professor had a violent fit of sneezing, and in mocking tones held out his snuff-box and said:
“Have a good pinch? Stop the sneezing. Ah! that’s better,” he added, as the professor finished off with a tremendous burst. “Your head will be clear now, and you can understand what I say. That boy’s getting well.”
“I wish I could think so,” said the professor, sniffing so very quietly that, as if to give him a lesson, his companion blew off one of his blasts, with the result that a waiter hurried into the room to see what was wrong.
“Think? there is no occasion to think so. He is mending fast, sir; and if you have any doubt about it, and cannot trust in the opinion of a man of the world, go and watch him, and see how interested he seems in all that is going on. Why, a fortnight ago he lay back in his chair dreaming and thinking of nothing but himself. Now he is beginning to forget that there is such a person. He’s better, sir, better.”
The fact was that the lawyer was right, and so was the professor, for at that time Lawrence was as changeable of aspect as an April day, and his friends could only judge him by that which he wore when they went to his side.