'Whatever you do, my dear, you mustn't excite yourself,' said Julia;
'for you know, if you look at all ill, the doctor will be sent for.'

'That is very true,' returned the old man humbly, 'I will compose myself
with a little study.' He thumbed his gallery of notebooks. 'I wonder,'
he said, 'I wonder (since I see your hands are occupied) whether it
might not interest you--'

'Why, of course it would,' cried Julia. 'Read me one of your nice
stories, there's a dear.'

He had the volume down and his spectacles upon his nose instanter, as
though to forestall some possible retractation. 'What I propose to read
to you,' said he, skimming through the pages, 'is the notes of a highly
important conversation with a Dutch courier of the name of David Abbas,
which is the Latin for abbot. Its results are well worth the money
it cost me, for, as Abbas at first appeared somewhat impatient, I was
induced to (what is, I believe, singularly called) stand him drink. It
runs only to about five-and-twenty pages. Yes, here it is.' He cleared
his throat, and began to read.

Mr Finsbury (according to his own report) contributed about four hundred
and ninety-nine five-hundredths of the interview, and elicited from
Abbas literally nothing. It was dull for Julia, who did not require to
listen; for the Dutch courier, who had to answer, it must have been
a perfect nightmare. It would seem as if he had consoled himself by
frequent appliances to the bottle; it would even seem that (toward the
end) he had ceased to depend on Joseph's frugal generosity and called
for the flagon on his own account. The effect, at least, of some
mellowing influence was visible in the record: Abbas became suddenly a