"Indeed!" muttered Melbury.

Fitzpiers, increasingly energized by the alcohol, here reared himself
up suddenly from the bowed posture he had hitherto held, thrusting his
shoulders so violently against Melbury's breast as to make it difficult
for the old man to keep a hold on the reins. "People don't appreciate
me here!" the surgeon exclaimed; lowering his voice, he added, softly
and slowly, "except one--except one!...A passionate soul, as warm as
she is clever, as beautiful as she is warm, and as rich as she is
beautiful. I say, old fellow, those claws of yours clutch me rather
tight--rather like the eagle's, you know, that ate out the liver of
Pro--Pre--the man on Mount Caucasus. People don't appreciate me, I
say, except HER. Ah, gods, I am an unlucky man! She would have been
mine, she would have taken my name; but unfortunately it cannot be so.
I stooped to mate beneath me, and now I rue it."

The position was becoming a very trying one for Melbury, corporeally
and mentally. He was obliged to steady Fitzpiers with his left arm,
and he began to hate the contact. He hardly knew what to do. It was
useless to remonstrate with Fitzpiers, in his intellectual confusion
from the rum and from the fall. He remained silent, his hold upon his
companion, however, being stern rather than compassionate.

"You hurt me a little, farmer--though I am much obliged to you for your
kindness. People don't appreciate me, I say. Between ourselves, I am
losing my practice here; and why? Because I see matchless attraction
where matchless attraction is, both in person and position. I mention
no names, so nobody will be the wiser. But I have lost her, in a
legitimate sense, that is. If I were a free man now, things have come
to such a pass that she could not refuse me; while with her fortune
(which I don't covet for itself) I should have a chance of satisfying
an honorable ambition--a chance I have never had yet, and now never,
never shall have, probably!"