"I wonder if he'd fight, though, when the singing-fever was off him." He took Elsley upstairs into his bed-room, got him washed and shaved: and sent out the woman of the house for mutton chops and stout, and began himself setting out the luncheon table, while Elsley in the room within chanted to himself snatches of poetry.
"The notion has taken: he's composing a war song already, I believe." It actually was so: but Elsley's brain was weak and wandering; and he was soon silent; and motionless so long, that Tom opened the door and looked in anxiously.
He was sitting on a chair, his hands fallen on his lap, the tears running down his face.
"Well ?" asked Tom smilingly, not noticing the tears; "how goes on the opera?
I heard through the door the orchestra tuning for the prelude." Elsley looked up in his face with a puzzled piteous expression.
"Do you know, Thurnall, I fancy at moments that my mind is not what it was.

Fancies flit from me as quickly as they come.

I had twenty verses five minutes ago, and now I cannot recollect one." "No wonder," thought Tom to himself.

"My clear fellow, recollect all that you have suffered with this neuralgia.

Believe me all you want is animal strength.