"Certainly, doctor," returned the landlord, looking a little crestfallen. "If I had known the gentleman was a friend of yours—"
"Hardly that yet," interposed the doctor, smiling, "though I trust he may be, in good time. I know your uncle very well," he continued, addressing Bergan, as the landlord moved away,—"indeed, I may say, your two uncles,—if that be any ground of acquaintance. But I have the advantage of you, in that I heard your name just now;—mine is Remy—Felix Remy—very much at your service. Not that this announcement places us on an equal footing; for, while your name puts me at once in possession of your antecedents, to a certain extent, mine tells you nothing about me except that I am of French descent. Are you willing to take the rest on trust, until a fitting time for a fuller explanation?" And the doctor held out his hand.
"Until the end of time," replied Bergan, grasping it warmly. "It would be strange if kindness were not its own sufficient explanation."
Doctor Remy shrugged his shoulders with a frank cynicism. "Perhaps so," said he. "Yet I make bold to confess that my own practice is to look kindness a little more closely in the face than its opposite. The latter generally wears its reasons openly on its forehead; but for the complicated motives at the bottom of the former, one needs to look long and deep."
"Do they pay for the trouble?" asked Bergan, smiling.
"Not unless you love knowledge for its own sake. As society is constituted, you cannot well act upon it. To apparent kindness, one has to return apparent gratitude."
"I trust I succeed in making mine 'apparent,'" said Bergan, falling into the doctor's humor.
"Perfectly. It could not be told from the genuine article."
"The same thing might be said of your kindness."
"Doubtless. But here comes Cato, to show you to your room. I think breakfast will be ready as soon as you are."