"If he hadn't stuck at it late and early--burning the candle at both ends, as 'twere--he'd not have had his ologies at his fingers' tips," pursued Mrs. Macpherson, who often deemed it necessary to explain more lucidly her husband's meaning.
"And so you are about to migrate to Spain?" said the professor. "You----"
"He says he's going off to it by rail," interposed Mrs. Macpherson. "What are the people there? Blacks?"
"No, no, Betsy; they are white, as we are."
"I knew a Spanish man once, professor, and he was olive brown."
"They are dark from the effects of the sun. I thought you alluded to the race. The radiation of heat there is excessive; and----"
"That is, it's burning hot in the place," corrected Mrs. Macpherson. "I wish you joy of it, Mr. Hunter. You'll catch it full, a-laying down of your lines of rail."
"I think you have been in Spain?" observed Mr. Hunter to the doctor.
"I once stayed some months there. What do you say?--that you want some information that you think I can supply? I hope I can. What is it? Please to step into my room."
The professor passed out of the door by which he entered, Mr. Hunter following him. A short passage, and then they were in the square back room consecrated to the professor and his pursuits. It was not a museum, it was not a laboratory, it was not a library, or an aviary of stuffed birds, or an astronomical observatory; but it was something of all. Specimens of earth, of rock, of flowers, of plants, of weeds, of antiquarian walls; of animals, birds, fish, insects; books in cases, owls in cages; and a vast many more odd things too numerous to mention. Mrs. Macpherson thought it well to follow them.