“I am fifty-five,” said the Marquis, “and I feel younger every day,—not in body, you know, for I’m chockful of ailments; but in mind. I am growing out of all the responsibilities of this world.”
“And of the next?” asked Blodwell.
“In the next everything is arranged for us, pleasantly or otherwise. As to this one, no one expects anything more of me—no work, no good deeds, no career, no nothing. It’s a delicious freedom.”
“You never felt your bonds much.”
“No; but they were there, and every now and then they dragged on my feet.”
“Your view of old age is comforting,” said George.
“Only, George, if you want to realize it, you must not marry,” said Mr. Blodwell.
“No, no,” said the Marquis. “By the way, Blodwell, why did you never marry?”
“Too poor, till too late,” said Mr. Blodwell, briefly.
The Marquis raised his glass, and seemed to drink a respectful toast to a dead romance.