"I'm only a damned nuisance.
I've got this book of mine on the brain"-- he held up his head with both hands--"and I'm not a fit companion for anybody." I adjured him in familiar terms not to talk rubbish.

He was here for the repose of country things and freedom from day-infesting cares.

Already he was looking better for the change.

But I could not refrain from adding: "You wrote 'The Diamond Gate' without turning a hair.

Why should you worry yourself to death about this new book ?" When he answered I had the shivering impression of a wizened old man speaking to me.