"Yes," assented Verty; "but talking about it will make you worse, sir.
Mr. Rushton asked me to come and see how you were this morning."
"Rushton is thanked," said Mr. Roundjacket,—"Rushton, my young friend, has his good points—so have I, sir. I nursed him through a seven month's fever—a perfect bear, sir; but he always is that. Tell him that my arm—that I am nearly well, sir, and that nothing but my incapacity to write, from—from—the state of my—feelings," proceeded Roundjacket, "should keep me at home. Observe, my young sir, that this is no apology. Rushton and myself understand each other. If I wish to go, I go—or stay away, I stay away. But I like the old trap, sir, from habit, and rather like the bear himself, upon the whole."
With this Mr. Roundjacket attempted to flourish his ruler, from habit, and groaned.
"What's the matter, sir?" said Verty.
"I felt badly at the moment," said Roundjacket; "the fact is, I always do feel badly when I'm confined thus. I have been trying to wile away the time with the manuscript of my poem, sir—but it won't do. An author, sir—mark me—never takes any pleasure in reading his own writings."
"Ah?" said Verty.
"No, sir; the only proper course for authors is to marry."
"Indeed, sir?"
"Yes: and why, sir?" asked Mr. Roundjacket, evidently with the intention of answering his own question.
"I don't know," replied Verty.