displeased to hear.”
“What is it?”
“Well. We were speaking, the other evening, of my black humours.”
Mr. Crisparkle’s face falls, and he shakes his head deploringly.
“I said, you know, that I should make you an antidote to those black humours; and you said you hoped I would consign them to the flames.”
“And I still hope so, Jasper.”
“With the best reason in the world! I mean to burn this year’s Diary at the year’s end.”
“Because you—?” Mr. Crisparkle brightens greatly as he thus begins.
“You anticipate me. Because I feel that I have been out of sorts, gloomy, bilious, brain-oppressed, whatever it may be. You said I had been exaggerative. So I have.”