"Well? No: I am not well," he replied presently, understanding things a little.
"Is it distress of mind or of body, Mr. Fagg?"
"Yesterday it was both; to-night it will be both; just now it is only one."
"Which one?"
"Mind," he replied fiercely, refusing to acknowledge that he was starving. He threw his hat back, dashed his subscription book to the ground, and banged the unoffending bench with his fists.
"As for mind," he went on, "it's a pity I was born with any. I wish I'd had no more mind than my neighbors. It's mind, and nothing else, that has brought me to this."
"What is this, Mr. Fagg?"
"Nothing to you. Go your ways; you are young; you have yet your hopes, which may come to nothing, same as mine; even though they are not, like mine, hopes of glory and learning. There's Mr. Goslett in love with you; what is mind to you? Nothing. And you in love with him. Very likely he'll go off with another woman, and then you'll find out what it is to be disappointed. What is mind to anybody? Nothing. Do they care for it in the Museum? No. Does the head of the Egyptian Department care for it? Not he; not a bit. It's a cruel and a selfish country."
"O Mr. Fagg!" She disregarded his allusion to herself, though it was sufficiently downright.