"You look as though you'll live for ever," said Ronder, beaming upon him.
"You can't always tell from us big fellows. There's Brandon now, for instance--the Archdeacon."
"Surely there isn't a healthier man in the kingdom," said Ronder, pushing his spectacles back into the bridge of his nose.
"Think so, wouldn't you? But you'd be wrong. A sudden shock, and that man would be nowhere. Given to fits of anger, always tried his system too hard, never learnt control. Might have a stroke any day for all he looks so strong!"
"Really, really! Dear me!" said Ronder.
"Course these are medical secrets in a way. Know it won't go any farther. But it's curious, isn't it? Appearances are deceptive--damned deceptive. That's what they are. Brandon's brain's never been his strong point. Might go any moment."
"Dear me, dear me," said Ronder. "I'm sorry to hear that."
"Oh, I don't mean," said Puddifoot, puffing and blowing out his cheeks like a cherub in a picture by Sir Joshua Reynolds, "that he'll die to- morrow, you know--or have a stroke either. But he ain't as secure as he looks. And he don't take care of himself as he should."
Outside the Library Ronder paused.
"Going in here for a book, doctor. See you later."