"No, Ned," he responded quickly, "that is the last thing in the world I hope I shall have to do. Though I don't sit down to a banquet every day for dinner, I have never borrowed, and I never will if I can possibly help it. Don't judge me by my sad looks--I have a disagreeable impression that I am not a cheerful fellow to contemplate; but if the truth were known there are much harder lots than mine. I have a comical trick of twisting things to my own advantage, and of rather pitying men who could sell me up over and over again. Ned, as there is no station in life, however high, without its miseries, so there is no station in life, however low, without its compensations."
"You're the philosopher, Bob," quoth I.
"I don't know about that. I have grown into the belief that the poor have as much enjoyment as the rich, and when I take a shilling's worth in the gallery of a theater, I am positive that I don't get less pleasure out of it than the people who sit in the stalls do out of their half-guineas. If I am a philosopher that is the use I make of my philosophy. Then, Ned, I have the past to think of; for three years there was no happier man than I, and my sad memories are sweetened with gratitude. And life is short after all; time flies; tomorrow we shall all be on a level, rich and poor alike."
Thus spoke my old schoolfellow, Bob Millet, in his shabby coat, and the regard I used to have for him grew stronger every minute that passed.
When my wife came in, bustling and cheerful as usual, she nodded brightly at us, sat down with a piece of needlework in her hand--she is never idle, this wife of mine--and said:
"Now, Mr. Millet, let us hear about the house in Lamb's Terrace."
"I will tell you all I know. Have you the keys, Ned?"
"My wife has," I replied.
She opened her bag and took them out, remarking, as she wiped her fingers, that they were very dusty.
"As you see," observed Bob, "they are covered with rust."