Travers Gladwin sat up with a start, pulled a lugubrious smile and replied:
“Bored to death––nothing interested me––living the most commonplace, humdrum, unromantic existence imaginable. Teas and dances, dances and teas, clubs and theatres, theatres and clubs, motors and yachts, yachts and motors. It was horrible, and I can’t help thinking it was all my dear old governor’s fault. He had no consideration for me.”
“He left you a tidy lot of millions,” drawled Whitney Barnes.
Young Gladwin drained his glass, jumped to his feet and began to pace the room, hands deep in his trousers pockets.
“That was just it!” he flung out. “If he’d left me nothing but a shilling or two there’d be some joy in living. I’d have had to buckle down. There’s variety, interest, pleasure in having to make your own way in the world.”
Whitney Barnes laughed mockingly.
“Go out and tell that to the toiling masses,” he chuckled, “and listen to them give you the ha-ha. You’re in a bad way, old chap––better see a brain specialist.”
“I know I’m in a bad way,” Gladwin ran on fiercely, “but doctors can’t do me any good. It was all right while I was a frolicking lamb, but after I got over the age of thinking myself a devil of a fellow things began to grow tame. I was romantic, sentimental––wanted to fall in love.”
“Now you interest me,” Whitney Barnes interjected, stiffening to attention.