“Yes,” said the other, smiling; “I am making a complete series of views of the lake, and some fine day or other I’ll make water-colour drawings from them.”
“How I hate all these fine intentions that only point to more work. Tell me of a plan for a holiday, some grand scheme for idleness, and I am with you; but to sit quietly down and say, ‘I’ll roll that stone up a hill next summer, or next autumn,’ that drives me mad.”
“Well, I’ll not drive you mad. I’ll say nothing about it,” said Loyd, with a good-natured smile.
“But won’t you make me these drawings, these jottings of my tour amongst the Pyramids?”
“Not for such an object as you want them to serve.”
“I suppose, when you come to practise at the bar, you’ll only defend innocence and protect virtue, eh? You’ll, of course, never take the brief of a knave, or try to get a villain off. With your principles, to do so would be the basest of all crimes.”
“I hope I’ll never do that deliberately which my conscience tells me I ought not to do.”
“All right. Conscience is always in one’s own keeping—a guest in the house, who is far too well bred to be disagreeable to the family. Oh, you arch hypocrite! how much worse you are than a reprobate like myself!”
“I’ll not dispute that.”
“More hypocrisy!”