In the chief drawing-room, in a deep recess of a window, sat the Chief Baron, dressed as if to go out, with an overcoat and even his gloves on. “Come and drive with me, Beattie,” cried he, in a feeble but harsh voice. “If I take my man Leonard, they 'll say it was a keeper. You know that the 'Post' has it this morning that it is my mind which has given way. They say they 've seen me breaking for years back. Good heavens! can it be possible, think you, that the mites in a cheese speculate over the nature of the man that eats them? You stopped to talk with Pemberton I saw; what did he say to you?” “Nothing particular,--a mere greeting, I think.” “No, sir, it was not; he was asking you how many hours there lay between him and the Attorney-Generalship. They 've divided the carcase already. The lion has to assist at his autopsy,--rather hard, is n't it? How it embitters death, to think of the fellows who are to replace us!” “Let me feel your pulse.” “Don't trust it, Beattie; that little dialogue of yours on the grass plot has sent it up thirty beats; how many is it?” “Rapid,--very rapid; you need rest,--tranquillity.” “And you can't give me either, sir; neither you nor your craft. You are the Augurs of modern civilization, and we cling to your predictions just as our forefathers did, though we never believe you.” “This is not flattery,” said Beattie, with a slight smile. The old man closed his eyes, and passed his hand slowly over his forehead. “I suppose I was dreaming, Beattie, just before you came up; but I thought I saw them all in the Hall, talking and laughing over my death. Burrowes was telling how old I must be, because I moved the amendment to Flood in the Irish Parliament in '97; and Eames mentioned that I was Curran's junior in the great Bagenal record; and old Tysdal set them all in a roar by saying he had a vision of me standing at the gate of heaven, and instead of going in, as St. Peter invited me, stoutly refusing, and declaring I would move for a new trial! How like the rascals!” “Don't you think you'd be better in your own room? There's too much light and glare here.” “Do you think so?” “I am sure of it. You need quiet, and the absence of all that stimulates the action of the brain.” “And what do _you_, sir,--what does any one,--know about the brain's operations? You doctors have invented a sort of conventional cerebral organ, which, like lunar caustic, is decomposed by light; and in your vulgar materialism you would make out that what affects _your_ brain must act alike upon _mine_. I tell you, sir, it is darkness--obscurity, physical or moral, it matters not which--that irritates _me_, just as I feel provoked this moment by this muddling talk of yours about brain.” “And yet I 'm talking about what my daily life and habits suggest _some_ knowledge of,” said Beattie, mildly. “So you are, sir, and the presumption is all on my side. If you'll kindly lend me your arm, I'll go back to my room.”