--
But a fig for such nonsense! He knew but one legitimate use to make of
the unexpected little windfall, and that was, to put it by for a rainy
day. "At my age, in my position, I OUGHT to have fifty pounds in the
bank!"--times without number he had said this to himself, with a
growing impatience. But he had not yet managed to save a halfpenny.
Thrive as the practice might, the expenses of living held even pace with
it. And now, having got its cue, his brain started off again on the old
treadmill, reckoning, totting up, finding totals, or more often failing
to find them, till his head was as hot as his feet were cold. To-day he
could not think clearly at all.
Nor the next day either. By the time he reached home he was conscious of
feeling very ill: he had lancinating pains in his limbs, a chill down
his spine, an outrageous temperature. To set out again on a round of
visits was impossible. He had just to tumble into bed.
He got between the sheets with that sense of utter well-being, of almost
sensual satisfaction, which only one who is shivering with fever knows.
And at first very small things were enough to fill him with content: the
smoothness of the pillow's sleek linen; the shadowy light of the room
after long days spent in the dusty glare outside; the possibility of
resting, the knowledge that it was his duty to rest; Polly's soft, firm
hands, which were always of the right temperature--warm in the cold
stage, cool when the fever scorched him, and neither hot nor cold when
the dripping sweats came on.
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