"Because you won't do what you might. There is plenty for you to do. Has not the Duchess asked you to Scotland? You refuse—and such a splendid invitation! I have offered you a yacht. I say you may share a river in Norway with dear Lord Faro. I implore you to drive a coach, to keep racehorses, to take your place in the best society, as the representative of the Purling—"
"Pills?" put in Harold, with a queer smile.
His mother's face grew black instantly.
"Harold, do not dare to speak in that way. My father's memory should be respected by my only son."
Old Purling had made all his money by a certain chemical compound which had been adopted by the world at large as a panacea for every ill. But the heiress of the Purlings hated any reference to the Primeval Pills, although she owed to them her wealth.
"I want a profession," Harold said, returning to his point. "I want regular employment."
"Well, I say go into the Guards."
"I am too old. Besides, peace-soldiering, and in London, would never suit me, I know."
"Read law; it is a gentlemanly occupation."
"But most uninteresting. Now medicine—"