“England is in sight, old fellow,” he said, addressing somebody who lay back smoking in a cane-chair.
The person addressed made a movement as though to rise, then put up his hand to a shade that covered his eyes.
“I forgot,” he answered, with a smile; “it will have to be very much in sight before I can see it. By the way, Jeremy,” he went on, nervously, “I want to ask you something. These doctors tell such lies.” And he removed the shade. “Now, look at my eyes, and tell me honestly, am I disfigured? Are they shrunk, I mean, or have they got a squint, or anything of that sort?” and Ernest turned up his dark orbs, which, except that they had acquired that painful, expectant look peculiar to the blind, were just as they always had been.
Jeremy looked at them, first in one light, then in another.
“Well!” said Ernest, impatiently. “I can feel that you are staring me out of countenance.”
“Hamba gachlé,” replied the imperturbable one. “I am di—di—diagnosing the case. There, that will do. To all appearance, your optics are as sound as mine. You get a girl to look at them, and see what she says.”
“Ah, well; that is something to be thankful for.”
Just then somebody knocked at the cabin-door. It was a steward.
“You sent for me, Sir Ernest?”
“O yes, I remember. Will you be so good as to find my servant? I want him.”