“Now, this is some stuff that young ass Torrens has been putting into your head. To see the world! What world? You see it at home. England is the world. You have the best of everything here—the handsomest women, finest horses, best food and drink, best——” he paused, and his nephew, who was nursing his leg, blandly suggested “climate.”
“Climate be hanged! best society,” bawled Mr. Pollitt. “The fact of the matter is, you young chaps don’t know when you are well off. Travel—see the world—skittles!”
“I know that I am exceedingly well off, thanks to you, Uncle Dan,” rejoined his nephew, quietly. “I have capital polo ponies, a first-rate stud of hunters, a splendid allowance—but a fellow can’t play polo, and hunt, and go to balls and theatres all his life; at least, that’s not my idea of life. I have nothing to do, no profession, you know; you would not hear of my going into the service.”
“No—I hate the army—what prospect does it offer the young idiots who are slaving to get into it—to live vagabonds, and die beggars!”
“There was the diplomatic corps; but I’ve not brains enough for that.”
“Bosh! You don’t want a profession, taking bread out of other people’s mouths. You are my heir—that’s your profession. As to intellect, there is a great deal too much intellect in these days; the world would be far easier to govern if there was less! You have brains enough, my boy, you did very well at Oxford.”
“I know that I am very fortunate,” repeated the young man, “and that thousands of fellows would give anything to stand in my shoes.”
“Clarence for one,” interrupted his uncle, with a loud chuckle.
“But I’m sick of the eternal treadmill round of the London season—Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes, Scotland. Then back to London, and we begin the whole business over again. We see the same people, and do the same things.”
“How old are you, Mark?” broke in Mr. Pollitt, excitedly.