"I do care, very much." And one of the old looks, that Dr. Harrison well remembered—said the words were true.
"You do me more honour than I do myself," he said, not so lightly as he meant to say it. "I do not care. I see nothing to care for."
"You refuse to see it—" Mr. Linden said gently and sorrowfully.
Dr. Harrison's brow darkened—it might be with pain, for Mr. Linden's words were the echo of others he had listened to—not long ago. In a moment he turned and spoke with an impulse—of bravado? Perhaps he could not have defined, and his companion could not trace.
"I refuse to see nothing!—but I confess to you I see nothing distinctly. What sort of an 'orbit' would you propose to me?"
The tone sounded frank, and certainly was not unkind. Mr. Linden's answer was in few words—"'To them who by patient continuance in well doing seek for glory and honour and immortality, eternal life'."
Dr. Harrison remained a little while with knitted brow looking down at his hands, which certainly were in an order to need no examination. Neither was he examining them. When he looked up again it was with the frankness and kindliness both more defined. Perhaps, very strange to his spirit, a little shame was at work there.
"Linden," he said, "I believe in you! and if ever I enter upon an orbit of any sort, I'll take up yours. But—" said he relapsing into his light tone, perhaps of intent,—"you know two forces are necessary to keep a body going in one—and I assure you there is none, of any sort, at present at work upon me!"
"You are mistaken," said Mr. Linden,—"there are two."
"Let's hear—" said the doctor without looking at him.