"You are ill," said I, deeply concerned. "I was afraid of this."
He laughed, more like a croak.
"Sure I'm sick. I'm sick to the core of me, but you and Westmoreland can't dose me. Nobody can do anything for me, I have to do it myself or go under. That's part of paying on the instalment plan, too, parson."
"I don't think I exactly understand—"
"No, you wouldn't. You paid in a lump sum, you see. And you got what you got. Whatever it was that got you, parson, got the best of the bargain." His voice softened.
"You are talking in parables," said I, severely.
"But I'm not paying in parables, parson. I'm paying in me," said he, grimly. And he laughed again, a laugh of sheer stark misery that raised a chill echo in my heart. His hand crept back to my sleeve.
"I—can't always can the squeal," he whispered.
"If only I could help you!" I grieved.
"You do," said he, quickly. "You do, by being you. I hang on to you, parson. And say, look here! Don't you think I'm such a hog I can't find time to be glad other folks are happy even if I'm not. If there's one thing that could make me feel any sort of way good, it's to know those two who were made for each other have found it out. It sort of makes it look as if some things do come right, even if others are rotten wrong. I'm glad till it hurts me. I'd like you to believe that."