barber at Corbin Hall, who can give you points on shaving."
Bridge was so frightened and uneasy about Mr. Romaine's condition that he did not even resent this slur.
It was still intensely cold and snowing. But the roaring fire and heavy curtains made the room deliciously comfortable. Chessingham always came to Mr. Romaine at eleven—and on this particular morning he found Mr. Romaine in his usual place before the great, cheery fireplace. But he undoubtedly looked ill.
"What sort of a night did you have?" was the young doctor's first inquiry.
"Only fairly good," replied Mr. Romaine, and then went on with great seriousness to describe a multitude of trifling symptoms, such as any imaginative person can conjure up at any moment.
"The fact is,—to be perfectly candid with you,"—said Chessingham, who was a conscientious man, "if you allow yourself to dwell upon these trifling ailments they will entail real suffering upon you. Try and forget about your stiff shoulder, and your neuralgic headache, and that sort of thing."
