Undershaw felt considerable embarrassment. The owner of the Tower appeared to him more of a lunatic than ever.
"Well, really, Mr. Melrose—I appreciate your kindness—as I am sure my patient will. But—why should you put yourself out to this extent? It would be much simpler for everybody concerned that I should find him the quarters I propose."
"You put it to Mr. Faversham that I am quite prepared to move him into other quarters—and quarters infinitely more comfortable than he can get in any infernal 'home' you talk of—or I shall put it to him myself," said Melrose, in his most determined voice.
"Of course, if you persist in asking him to stay, I suppose he must ultimately decide." Undershaw's tone betrayed his annoyance. "But I warn you, I reserve my own right of advice. And moreover—supposing you do furnish this room for him, allow me to point out that he will soon want something else, and something more, even, than a better room. He will want cheerful society."
"Well?" The word was challenging.
"You are most kind and indefatigable in coming to see him. But, after all, a man at his point of convalescence, and inclined to be depressed—the natural result of such an accident—wants change, intellectual as well as physical, and society of his own age."
"What's to prevent his getting it?" asked Melrose, shortly. "When the room is in order, he will use it exactly as he likes."
Undershaw shrugged his shoulders, anxious to escape to his consultation.
"Let us discuss it again to-morrow. I have told you what I think best."
He turned to go.
"Will you give that order to Barclay?"