“My dear fellow, don’t attempt to be cynical. You make a poor hand of it; and really I know that he did mean to. But, as my mother pointed out, that is no excuse.”
Arthur was silent a moment.
“I apologize,” he said; “I am sure you are right. I have an idea—no, never mind. Have some whisky.”
They sat smoking for a spell without speech.
“You ought to be awfully happy here,” said Jack, at length. “You have a charming house, and nothing particular to do. How I wish I had been born a loafer. I have great inclinations that way, but no gift at all. The real loafer is born, not made. I am always wanting to settle down, or finish up, or get to work.”
“I want none of these things,” said Arthur, with conviction. “Settling down, I suppose, means marrying. Are you going to marry, by the way?”
“I am going to do everything that there is to be done,” said Jack, “and after that I shall find more things to do.”
“And all this in the near future?” he asked.
“You ask as many questions as Miss Fortescue,” said Jack. “I am in dread of appearing well informed, so I shall not answer them.”
“Don’t. As soon as I know the answer to a question I lose all interest in it.”