‘I believe I understand you.’
‘No, you don’t, nor any Cockney among you.’
‘I’m not a Cockney.’
‘I don’t care, you’re the same: you’re not one of us; nor if you spent fifty years among us, would you understand us.’
‘Come over and see me in Berkshire, Kearney, and let me see if you can read our people much better.’
‘From all I hear, there’s not much to read. Your chawbacon isn’t as cute a fellow as Pat.’
‘He’s easier to live with.’
‘Maybe so; but I wouldn’t care for a life with such people about me. I like human nature, and human feelings—ay, human passions, if you must call them so. I want to know—I can make some people love me, though I well know there must be others will hate me. You’re all for tranquillity all over in England—a quiet life you call it. I like to live without knowing what’s coming, and to feel all the time that I know enough of the game to be able to play it as well as my neighbours. Do you follow me now, major?’
‘I’m not quite certain I do.’
‘No—but I’m quite certain you don’t; and, indeed, I wonder at myself talking to you about these things at all.’