He closed the book
with great deliberation; he locked it up again in the cupboard with
extraordinary care; he wheeled round, and stared hard at me once more.
Then he spoke.
"Sir," he said gravely, "there are great allowances to be made for a man
who has not read ROBINSON CRUSOE since he was a child. I wish you good
morning."
He opened his door with a low bow, and left me at liberty to find my own
way into the garden. I met Mr. Blake returning to the house.
"You needn't tell me what has happened," he said. "Betteredge has played
his last card: he has made another prophetic discovery in ROBINSON
CRUSOE. Have you humoured his favourite delusion? No? You have let him
see that you don't believe in ROBINSON CRUSOE? Mr. Jennings! you have
fallen to the lowest possible place in Betteredge's estimation. Say what
you like, and do what you like, for the future. You will find that he
won't waste another word on you now."
June 21st.--A short entry must suffice in my journal to-day.
Mr. Blake has had the worst night that he has passed yet. I have been
obliged, greatly against my will, to prescribe for him. Men of his
sensitive organisation are fortunately quick in feeling the effect of
remedial measures.
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