You
peter out; the engine dulls; the shining coin wears thin. If it's
only that it is all right; you are fortunate if you don't become
greasy, too, or blurred, or scarred. And Mr. McCain had not spent
all his hours wisely or beautifully, or even quietly, underneath the
surface. He suddenly developed what he called "acute indigestion."
"Odd!" he complained, "and exceedingly tiresome! I've been able to
eat like an ostrich all my life." Adrian smiled covertly at the
simile, but his uncle was unaware that it was because in Adrian's
mind the simile applied to his uncle's conscience, not his stomach.
It _was_ an odd disease, that "acute indigestion." It manifested
itself by an abrupt tragic stare in Mr. McCain's eyes, a whiteness of
cheek, a clutching at the left side of the breast; it resulted also
in his beginning to walk very slowly indeed. One day Adrian met
Carron, his uncle's physician, as he was leaving a club after
luncheon. Carron stopped him. "Look here, Adrian," he said,
"is that new man of your uncle's--that valet, or whatever he is--a
good man?"
Adrian smiled. "I didn't hire him," he answered, "and I couldn't
discharge him if I wanted--in fact, any suggestion of that kind on my
part, would lead to his employment for life.
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