“I wish I were a metaphysician,” said Clarence, with a sigh.
“I am glad to hear you say so; for you know, my dear Linden,” said Callythorpe, “that I am your true friend, and I must therefore tell you that you are shamefully ignorant. You are not offended?”
“Not at all!” said Clarence, trying to smile.
“And you, my dear Findlater” (turning to the baronet), “you know that I wish you well; you know that I never flatter; I’m your real friend, so you must not be angry; but you really are not considered a Solomon.”
“Mr. Callythorpe!” exclaimed the baronet in a rage (the best-hearted people can’t always bear truth), “what do you mean?”
“You must not be angry, my good sir; you must not, really. I can’t help telling you of your faults; for I am a true Briton, sir, a true Briton, and leave lying to slaves and Frenchmen.”
“You are in an error,” said Trollolop; “Frenchmen don’t lie, at least not naturally, for in the human mind, as I before said, the Divine Author has implanted a principle of veracity which—”
“My dear sir,” interrupted Callythorpe, very affectionately, “you remind me of what people say of you.”
“Memory may be reduced to sensation, since it is only a weaker sensation,” quoth Trollolop; “but proceed.”
“You know, Trollolop,” said Callythorpe, in a singularly endearing intonation of voice, “you know that I never flatter; flattery is unbecoming a true friend,—nay, more, it is unbecoming a native of our happy isles, and people do say of you that you know nothing whatsoever, no, not an iota, of all that nonsensical, worthless philosophy of which you are always talking. Lord St. George said the other day ‘that you were very conceited.’—‘No, not conceited,’ replied Dr. ——, ‘only ignorant;’ so if I were you, Trollolop, I would cut metaphysics; you’re not offended?”