XV.
ONE evening at dinner, about a fortnight later, “What's the matter, Elias?” the rabbi asked. “You're not feeling sick, are you? Or blue? Or worried about any thing?”
“Why, no,” Elias answered, “I feel all right. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don't know. I thought you were looking a little out-of-sorts. Likely enough, it was only an idea.”
“The truth is,” Elias presently volunteered, “that, so far from feeling blue or low-spirited or anything of that kind, I don't seem to feel much of any thing at all. I'm sort of sluggish—dull—dead-and-alive. I'd give a good deal for a sensation, an excitement. I've been feeling this way pretty much all the time since—for the last two weeks. Heavy, thick, as though my blood had stopped circulating. I wish you'd stick a pin into me.”
“Oh, you need a little amusement, a little fun, something to take you out of yourself. That's all. Why don't you go to the theater?”
“No, thanks. I'm not fond of the theater. Besides, it's too hot.”
“Well, then, why don't you make a call?”
“A call! Pshaw; is that your notion of excitement?”
“Well, it's better than sitting at home, and moping, isn't it?”