“In the first place,” and he paused a moment—“I am very much in debt.” The young man spoke as he might of taking a cold asleep in the open air—as if he had been exposed to debt and had caught it.
The first look of sadness rose and deepened over his face as he shook his head dejectedly.
“But I’ll get over it—‘Time and I.’ Don’t you rather like the astute old king after all, Mr. Maskelyne?”
“By your own exertions?” asked the lawyer, dryly, and evading the question.
“I write a little,” replied the impenitent, modestly. “I have even heard of people who admired some of my verses.”
“You have no other occupation?”
Old Maskelyne was asking enough questions now. Indeed, under the magic of the stranger’s manner he had quite forgotten himself, his usual caution, and even the exceptional manner in which his companion had been introduced to him.
“Yes,” the other admitted, “I am a lawyer.”
“Don’t you think,” said the older man, answering almost instinctively, “that on the whole you might find the employments of the law more remunerative than the calling of a—poet?”
