Mavering lay on his back under the maple, smoking.
"Get up. Come along."
"This cigar is the worst—"
"Get on your horse. I want you."
"What do I care what you want? I was about to say, this cigar is the—"
"Throw it away, then."
Mavering unfolded his legs and mounted, grumbling.
"You're the blankedest, most egotistic anchorite that ever petted his soul, not to say dosed it allopathically with wars and red rebellions. One question: Is there any copy in this?"
"Not a word."
"Just what I thought. Wherever a man goes he finds selfishness."