“First of all, it's not reasoning at all; the man who began to doubt whether he had a valid right to what he possessed might doubt whether he had a right to his own name—whether his wife was his own, and what not. Don't you see where all this would lead to? If I have to report whether a new line is safe and fit to be opened for public traffic, I don't sink shafts down to see if some hundred fathoms below there might be an extinct volcano, or a stratum of unsound pudding-stone. I only want to know that the rails will carry so many tons of merchandise. Do you see my point?—do you take me, Bramleigh?”
“Mr. Cutbill,” said Augustus, slowly, “on matters such as these you have just alluded to there is no man's opinion I should prefer to yours, but there are other questions on which I would rather rely upon my own judgment. May I beg, therefore, that we should turn to some other topic.”
“It's true, then—the report was well-founded?” cried Cutbill, staring in wild astonishment at the other's face.
“And if it were, sir,” said Bramleigh, haughtily, “what then?”
“What then? Simply that you'd be the—no matter what. Your father was very angry with me one night, because I said something of the same kind to him.”
And as he spoke he pushed his glass impatiently from him, and looked ineffably annoyed and disgusted.
“Will you not take more wine, Mr. Cutbill?” said Augustus, blandly, and without the faintest sign of irritation.
“No; not a drop. I'm sorry I've taken so much. I began by filling my glass whenever I saw the decanter near me—thinking, like a confounded fool as I was, we were in for a quiet confidential talk, and knowing that I was just the sort of fellow a man of your own stamp needs and requires; a fellow who does nothing from the claims of a class—do you understand?—nothing because he mixes with a certain set and dines at a certain club; but acts independent of all extraneous pressure—a bit of masonry, Bramleigh, that wants no buttress. Can you follow me, eh?”
“I believe I can appreciate the strength of such a character as you describe.”
“No, you can't, not a bit of it. Some flighty fool that would tell you what a fine creature you were, how greathearted—that's the cant, great-hearted!—would have far more of your esteem and admiration than Tom Cutbill, with his keen knowledge of life and his thorough insight into men and manners.”