“And you, Lord Mapledurham?” George ventured to ask.
“Ay, ask him!” said Mr. Blodwell. “Perhaps his reason will be less sadly commonplace.”
“I don’t know,” said the Marquis, pondering. “Some of them expected it, and that disgusted me. And some of them didn’t, and that disgusted me too.”
“You put the other sex into rather a difficult position,” remarked George, laughing.
“Nothing to what they’ve put me into. Eh, Blodwell?”
“Now, tell me, Mapledurham,” said Mr. Blodwell, who was in a serious mood to-night. “On the whole, have you enjoyed your life?”
“I have wasted opportunities, talents, substance—everything: and enjoyed it confoundedly. I am no use even as a warning.”
“Ask a parson,” said Mr. Blodwell, dryly.
“I remember,” the Marquis went on, dreamily, “an old ruffian—another old ruffian—saying just the same sort of thing one night. I was at Liverpool for the Cup. Well, in the evening, I got tired of the other fellows, and went out for a turn; and down a back street, I found an old chap sitting on a doorstep,—a dirty old fellow, but uncommonly picturesque, with a long grey beard. As I came by, he was just trying to get up, but he staggered and fell back again.”
“Drunk?” asked Mr. Blodwell.