At eight o'clock next morning, when Miss Hancock left her room, Boffins informed her that her brother was ill and wished to see her.
"I'm all right," said James, who was lying in bed with the sheets up to his nose, "I'm all right—for heaven's sake, don't fidget with that window blind—I want my letters brought up; shan't go to the office to-day. You can send round and tell Bridgewater to call, and send for Carter, I've got a touch of this Arthritic Rheumatism (ow!)—do ask that servant to make less row on the stairs. No, don't want any breakfast."
"Well, Hancock," said Dr Carter, when he arrived, "got it again—whew! There's a foot! What have you been eating?"
"Nothing," groaned the patient; "it's worry has done it, I believe."
"Now, don't talk nonsense. What have you been eating and drinking?"
"Well, I believe I had an ice-cream some days ago, and—a cake."
"An ice-cream, and a cake, and a glass of port—come, confess your sins."
"No, a glass of Burgundy."
"An ice-cream, and a cake, and a glass of Burgundy—well, you can commit suicide if you choose, but I can only warn you of this that if you wish to commit suicide in a most unpleasant manner you'll do such a thing again."