"Well, well, better not; I quite agree with you, doctor," gushed his
guest. "Good-night, doctor. Good-night!"
"I wonder if the doctor ever had such a blinkin' ass in his house
before!" said the amiable gentleman to himself as he shut his bed-room
door behind him.
Looking at myself in the glass with a kind of chastened complacence, I
decided that the man who could perceive in Mr. Hobhouse any reminiscence
of the mysterious young stranger of six months ago would have a
singularly piercing eye. At the same time it was a sobering experience to
gaze at that black-bearded gentleman, with his hair parted in the middle
and brushed low down over his forehead, and his foolish looking
pince-nezs, and reflect that there was no artificial difference between
him and the vanished Roger Merton save those eye-glasses and a little
hair dye. That was my own face, and my own hair, and, I presumed, my own
natural latent idiocy blinking behind those glasses. I turned away from
the mirror with mingled feelings.
As the hour was not late (early to bed being part of the cure), I put on
my dressing gown and sat down to smoke and chew the cud of my evening's
conversation with Dr. Rendall. The more I saw of him, the more favourably
on the whole the man impressed me. He was a gentleman and seemed a good
fellow.
Pages:
118
119
120
121
122
123
124
125
126
127
128
129
130
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142