"You should have sent for me to come to you, Mr. Hubbard," Nicholas
Dyall said, with a gentle pity that infuriated the old lawyer, who knew
that he himself was young enough to be Dyall's grandson. Hubbard was
jealous--he would not conceal it from himself--bitterly jealous. It had
not been hard for him to rationalize Jan Shortmire's gift of years as
a worthless one; that old man's bitterness and disillusionment had not
inspired envy. But this hale and rosy old man seemed to be enjoying his
years.
_I may not have made any signal contribution to human welfare_, Hubbard
thought resentfully, _but I have done my best. Why must I die at an age
fifty years short of the age which this man is allowed to reach?_
"I am perfectly able to get about, Mr. Dyall," he said in icy tones,
"since I am in excellent health."