“Yes,” said Ovid; “that will do.”
They were as near to an open quarrel as two men could be: Ovid took up his hat to go. Even at that critical moment, Benjulia’s strange jealousy of his young colleague—as a possible rival in some field of discovery which he claimed as his own—showed itself once more. There was no change in his tone; he still spoke like a judicious friend.
“A last word of advice,” he said. “You are travelling for your health; don’t let inquisitive strangers lead you into talk. Some of them might be physiologists.”
“And might suggest new ideas,” Ovid rejoined, determined to make him speak out this time.
Benjulia nodded, in perfect agreement with his guest’s view.
“Are you afraid of new ideas?” Ovid went on.
“Perhaps I am—in your head.” He made that admission, without hesitation or embarrassment. “Good-bye!” he resumed. “My sensitive foot feels noises: don’t bang the door.”
Getting out into the lane again, Ovid looked at his letter to the doctor at Montreal. His first impulse was to destroy it.
As Benjulia had hesitated before giving him the letter, so he now hesitated before tearing it up.
Contrary to the usual practice in such cases, the envelope was closed. Under those circumstances, Ovid’s pride decided him on using the introduction. Time was still to pass, before events opened his eyes to the importance of his decision. To the end of his life he remembered that Benjulia had been near to keeping back the letter, and that he had been near to tearing it up.