"Done up, eh?" I said to him.
"Done up is the word," he answered.
"You've been doing too much," I said, looking into his grey eyes as I held his hand a moment. "You must cease work for a time. Get away from your easel, go abroad, and forget to take your brushes with you. Go anywhere, a hundred miles from a retail colourman's."
"'YOU'VE BEEN DOING TOO MUCH,' I SAID."
"My dear doctor," he answered, "your prescription is too strong. You forget I am an artist. It is like taking a man with a dying thirst to a fountain of water and telling him he mustn't drink. I can't leave my work."
"When I tell you that it is either a case of your leaving your work or your work leaving you, my remark may not be very original, but it is undeniably true. Do you sleep well?"
"I can't say," was his reply. "When I fall asleep at night I never wake until my hour for rising. But I am more tired in the morning than when I turned in over-night."
"Quite so. Do you dream at all?"
"Yes, I dream."