“Very well. I 'll be punctual. At eleven on Saturday expect me. May I bring that little thing of yours for two hundred pounds with it, Mr. Linton?”
“Of course you may not. Where do you expect me to find money for the debts of last year? My dear Hoare, I have no more memory for such things than I have for the sorrows of childhood.”
“Ah, very well, sir, we'll keep it over,” said Hoare, smiling.
“Let him bring it,” whispered Cashel, “and include it in one of my bills. There's nothing so worrying as an overhanging debt.”
“Do you think so?” replied Linton. “Bless me, I never felt that. A life without duns is like a sky without a cloud, very agreeable for a short time, but soon becoming wearisome from very monotony. You grow as sick of uninterrupted blue as ever you did of impending rain and storm. Let me have the landscape effect of light and shadow over existence. The brilliant bits are then ten times as glorious in color, and the dark shadows of one's mortgages only heighten the warmth of the picture. Ask Hoare, there, he'll tell you. I actually cherish my debts.”
“Very true, sir; you cannot bear to part with them either.”
“Well said, old Moses; the 'interest' they inspire is too strong for one's feelings. But hark! I hear some fresh arrivals without. Another boat-load of the d——d has crossed the Styx.”
“Thanks for the simile, sir,” said Hoare, smiling faintly,—“on Saturday.”