"
"That's it!" He drew a heavy breath. "The thing one can do best.
And when that thing is the setting poor, disabled human machinery
straight--making it run smoothly again! One can hardly imagine turning
one's hand to--book-binding, making things in brass, dressing dolls,
to take up one's time, occupy one's mind, keep one's hands busy, after
having known the practice of a profession like that!"
He got up from the bench and strode a few paces with a quick, impatient
step, such as she had never seen him take. Then, wheeling suddenly, he
came back to the bench and dropped upon it, breathing short. She had
instantly to his support a small bottle of strong salts which she always
carried, but for a moment she feared that this might not be stimulant
enough to a heart still inclined to be erratic upon small provocation.
She laid anxious fingers upon his pulse, but found it already steadying.
"This will be over in a minute," she said quietly. "Soon, you will have
got above such bothersome minutes. I shouldn't have let you talk about a
thing which means so much to you."
"No, I can't even talk about it," he said. "I'm as much of an infernal
hypochondriac as that. I beg your pardon--" and he set his lips.
They sat in silence for a little. Then, suddenly a voice hailed them--a
cheerful, familiar voice.
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