“A martyrdom, Dering? It is anything but that. Had I been well in health, I can’t tell what my feelings might have been. I should probably have considered it a waste of time to have spent a month, either here or anywhere else, in absolute idleness. But being ill, and having just been dragged back, by main force as it were, from Death’s very door, I cannot tell you how grateful, how soothing to me is the quietude of this old spot. If, now and then, when I feel better and stronger, there come moments when I long to glance over the money article of ‘The Times,’ or to write a long, impatient letter to my broker in London, there are days and nights when such things have no longer the faintest interest for me—times when bare life itself seems a burden almost too heavy for endurance, and all my ambitious schemes and speculations nothing more than a tissue of huge mistakes.” “Your old interest in everyday matters will gradually come back to you as you grow better,” said Lionel, “and with it will come the desire to be up and doing.” “I suppose you are right,” said Tom. “It would never do for a little illness to change the plans and settled aims of a lifetime.” “No chance of your settling down here at Gatehouse Farm as Hermit Number Two?” Tom shook his head and laughed. “Do you know, Dering,” he said, “that you are one of the greatest riddles, one of the most incomprehensible fellows, it was ever my fortune to meet with! But, pardon me,” he added hastily. “Of all men in the world, you are the one to whom I ought least to say such words.” “Nothing of the kind,” said Lionel, with a smile. “I like your frankness. I am aware that many people look upon me as a sort of harmless lunatic, though what there is so incomprehensible about me I am at a loss to imagine.” “You will forgive me for saying so,” said Tom, “but to me it seems such an utter pity to see a man of your education and abilities wasting the best years of his life in a place like this, with no society but that of fishermen and boors: to see a man, young and strong in health, so utterly indifferent to all the ordinary claims of civilized life—to all the aims and ambitions by which the generality of his fellow men are actuated, to the bright career which he might carve out for himself, if he would but take the trouble to do so.” “Ah, that is just it, mon ami: if I would but take the trouble to do so! But is the game really worth the candle? To me, I confess that it is not.” Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I know that you can afford to pity me—that you look upon me as a sort of good-natured imbecile.” “No—no!” in energetic protest from Tom.