recognised again, in spite of its being cut and hacked in every
direction. For my friend had a habit of cutting marks in it while he sat
smoking, now and then throwing a word into the conversation to keep it
going, just as one throws fuel on a fire--it was the spirit of the
conversation, and that something should be said, rather than the thought
itself, he cared about. When sitting thus, his face often wore a
melancholy, peaceful expression, as if he were smiling at something
beautiful we others did not see.

Between the bed and the shelves I discovered some bottles, ordinary
spirit bottles, and the suspicion flashed like lightning through my
mind--I have, as I said, become suspicion personified, not naturally,
but through disappointment--that my friend was perhaps given to drink.

I put the lamp down upon the floor. In one bottle was ink, in the
second paraffin, and in the third, a smaller one, cod-liver oil, which
he probably took for his chest.

I remembered his clammy hand, his stopping, and heavy breathing on the
stairs, and I felt thoroughly ashamed that I could have been such a
wretch as to think the dear friend, I might also say ideal, of my youth,
was no better than any scamp in vulgar life, who positively ought to be
suspected.

I offered him, in silence, a penitent apology, while I read over the
titles on the backs of the books, recognising one and another. These
shelves seemed to be the bookshelves of his student days. I drew out a
thick volume, old "Saxo Grammaticus," which I remembered to have bought
at an auction, and presented to him; but now I found something quite
different to think about.