Mr. Hardy, whistling softly, rose and walked round the room, uncorking medicine bottles and sniffing at their contents. A smile of unaffected pleasure lit up his features as he removed the stopper from one particularly pungent mixture.
“Two tablespoonfuls three times a day,” he read, slowly. “When did you have the last, Swann? Shall I ring for the nurse?”
The invalid shook his head impatiently. “You're an ungrateful dog,” he muttered, “or you would tell me how your affair is going. Have you got any chance?”
“You're getting light-headed now,” said Hardy, calmly. “I'd better go.”
“All right, go then,” responded the invalid; “but if you lose that girl just for the want of a little skilled advice from an expert, you'll never forgive yourself—I'm serious.”
“Well, you must be ill then,” said the younger man, with anxiety.
“Twice,” said Mr. Swann, lying on his back and apparently addressing the ceiling, “twice I have given this young man invaluable assistance, and each time he has bungled.”