“I'm all right, sir,” he said, in a thin voice. “I'm glad to see you're looking a trifle better, sir.”
“Oh, I'm quite right, now,” said the other, with a genial smile at the fermenting Mr. Kybird. “I'm as well as ever I was. Illness is a serious thing, Smith, but it is not without its little amusements.”
Mr. Smith, scratching his smooth-shaven chin and staring blankly in front of him, said that he was glad to hear it.
“I've had a long bout of it,” continued the ship-broker, “longer than I intended at first. By the way, Smith, you've never spoken to anybody of that business, of course?”
“Of course not, sir,” said the boarding-master, grinding his teeth.
“One has fancies when one is ill,” said Mr. Swann, in low tones, as his eye dwelt with pleasure on the strained features of Mr. Kybird. “I burnt the document five minutes after you had gone.”
“Did you, reely?” said Mr. Smith, mechanically.
“I'm glad it was only you and the doctor that saw my foolishness,” continued the other, still in a low voice. “Other people might have talked, but I knew that you were a reliable man, Smith. And you won't talk about it in the future, I'm quite certain of that. Good afternoon.”
Mr. Smith managed to say, “Good afternoon,” and stood watching the receding figure as though it belonged to a species hitherto unknown to him. Then he turned, in obedience to a passionate tug at his coat sleeve from Mr. Kybird.
“Wot 'ave you got to say for yourself?” demanded that injured person, in tones of suppressed passion. “Wot do you mean by it? You've made a pretty mess of it with your cleverness.”