“Why must you?” asked Tony.
“For the reason that the well-bred dog went downstairs when he saw certain preparations that betokened kicking him down.
“After all, I think a new colony and the gold-fields the real thing,—the glorious independence of it; you live how you like, and with whom you like. No Mrs. Grundy to say, 'Do you know who dined with Skeffington Darner yesterday?' 'Did you remark the young woman who sat beside him in his carriage?' and such-like.”
“But you cannot be always sure of your nuggets,” muttered Tony. “I 've seen fellows come back poorer than they went.”
“Of course you have; it's not every horse wins the Derby, old boy. And I'll tell you another thing, too; the feeling, the instinct, the inner consciousness that you carry success in your nature, is a rarer and a higher gift than the very power to succeed. You meet with clever fellows every day in the week who have no gauge of their own cleverness. To give an illustration; you write a book, we'll say.”
“No, I don't,” blurted out Tony.
“Well, but you might; it is at least possible.”
“It is not.”
“Well, let us take something else. You are about to try something that has a great reward attached to it, if successful; you want, we 'll suppose, to marry a woman of high rank and large fortune, very beautiful,—in fact, one to whom, according to every-day notions, you have not the slightest pretensions. Is n't that a strong case, eh?”
“Worse than the book. Perhaps I 'd better try authorship,” said Tony, growing very red; “but make the case your own, and I 'll listen just as attentively.”