He gave a hollow sort of laugh, and poking the ashes out of his pipe, prepared to fill it again.
"I wouldn't talk cant, if I were you," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked.
"Well, that sort of speech of yours would befit a parson."
"Pardon me," I rejoined, "I but express the sentiments of any man who values moral worth, and looks upon life as a great responsibility to be accounted for."
He fidgeted uneasily in his chair. He was in no mood for any further advice, and I prepared to leave him.
"You will be well enough to go out to-morrow," I said, as I bade him good-bye.
He scarcely replied to me. I saw that he was in the depths of that depression which generally follows attacks like his. I said a word or two to the nurse at leaving, and went away.
It seemed unlikely that I should see much more of Tollemache; he would be well in a few days and able to go where he pleased; one more visit would probably be the last I should be obliged to make to him. He evidently did not respond to my overtures in the direction of moral suasion, and, much occupied with other matters, I had almost passed him from my mind. Two days after that evening, however, I received a short note from him; it ran as follows:—
"Will you come and see me as a friend? I'm like a bear with a sore head, but I promise not to be uncivil.