“Are you——” I began, when he took me up with:
“His kind? Not a bit of it. I’m an idealist—a dreamer asking the way to Utopia. I look about for the finger-posts in places like this. One must learn and suffer to dream properly.”
“You can do that and yet have ugly enough dreams,” I said, with subdued emphasis.
“That oughtn’t to be so,” he said, looking curiously at me. “Nightmare comes from self-indulgence. Cosset your grievances and they’ll control you. You must be an ascetic in the art of sensation.”
“And starve on a pillar like that old saint Mr. Tennyson wrote of,” I answered.
“Go and hang yourself,” he cried, pushing at me with a laugh. “Hullo! Who’s here?”
A couple of the scarecrows, evil-looking men both, had risen, and stood over us to one side, listening.
“Toff kenners,” I heard one of them mutter, “and good for jink, by the looks.”
“Tap the cady,” the other murmured, and both creatures shuffled round to the front of us.
“Good for a midjick, matey?” asked the more ruffianly looking of the two in a menacing tone.