A fortnight elapsed; he strengthened himself in stubbornness, aided by the catarrh, which many bottles of whisky would not overcome.

When his solitary confinement grew at length insufferable, he sent for Narramore, and had not long to wait before his friend appeared.

Narramore was rosy as ever: satisfaction with life beamed from his countenance.
"I've ordered you in some wine," he exclaimed genially, sinking into the easy-chair which Hilliard had vacated for him--an instance of selfishness in small things which did not affect his generosity in greater.

"It isn't easy to get good port nowadays, but they tell me that this is not injurious.

Hasn't young Birching been to see you?
No, I suppose he would think it _infra dig_.