but he packed her off the next morning in tears. He has a complete
set of Balzac's works, twenty-seven volumes, piled up near his
sofa, to throw at Watkins whenever that exemplary serving-man
appears with his meals. Yesterday I very innocently brought
Flemming a small basket of lemons. You know it was a strip of
lemonpeel on the curbstone that caused our friend's mischance.
Well, he no sooner set is eyes upon those lemons than he fell into
such a rage as I cannot adequately describe. This is only one of
moods, and the least distressing. At other times he sits with bowed
head regarding his splintered limb, silent, sullen, despairing.
When this fit is on him--and it sometimes lasts all day--nothing
can distract his melancholy. He refuses to eat, does not even read
the newspapers; books, except as projectiles for Watkins, have no
charms for him. His state is truly pitiable.

Now, if he were a poor man, with a family depending on his daily
labor, this irritability and despondency would be natural enough.
But in a young fellow of twenty-four, with plenty of money and
seemingly not a care in the world, the thing is monstrous. If he
continues to give way to his vagaries in this manner, he will end
by bringing on an inflammation of the fibula. It was the fibula he
broke. I am at my wits' end to know what to prescribe for him. I
have anaesthetics and lotions, to make people sleep and to soothe
pain; but I've no medicine that will make a man have a little
common-sense. That is beyond my skill, but maybe it is not beyond
yours. You are Flemming's intimate friend, his fidus Achates. Write
to him, write to him frequently, distract his mind, cheer him up,
and prevent him from becoming a confirmed case of melancholia.
Perhaps he has some important plans disarranged by his present
confinement. If he has you will know, and will know how to advise