“Of course I do, and that’s not the way to make out life.”
“Not your way?”
“Mine? Mine’s to be irresponsible and independent—to act upon every impulse and always have a cat by me to claw out the chestnuts.”
“A high ideal, isn’t it?”
“Don’t fire that nonsense at me. Ideal, indeed! A cant term, Jack Straw, for a sort of religious mania. No ideal ever sparkled like a bottle of champagne. I’ve been drinking it for the first time lately and learning to play euchre. I’ve not proved such a bad pupil.”
He slapped the pocket to which he had returned his purse, with a joyous laugh.
“Champagne’s heaven!” he cried. “I never want any better. Come out with me to-morrow and taste it. Let’s have a jaunt!”
Duke shook his head.
“We shouldn’t agree in our notions of pleasure,” said he.
“Then, come you, Renny, and I’ll swear to show you more fun in a day than you’ve known in all your four years of London.”