"To his agent, of course. You may laugh, Miss Scott, but I can assure you that my duties are no sinecure. I never knew what work was before."
"Too much work," she said, "is better than too little. After all, more people die of the latter than the former."
"Nature meant me," he said, "for a hazy man. I have all the qualifications for a first-class idler. And circumstances and the misfortune of my opinions are going to keep me going at express speed all my life. I can see it coming. Sometimes it makes me shudder."
"You are too young," she remarked, "to shrink from work. I have no sympathy to offer you."
"I begin to fear, Miss Scott," he said, "that you are not what is called sympathetic."
She smiled—and the smile broke into a laugh, as though some transient idea rather than his words had pleased her.
"You should apply to my cousin Selina for that," she said. "Every one calls her most delightfully sympathetic."
"Sympathy," he remarked, "is either a heaven-sent joy—or a bore. It depends upon the individual."
"That is either enigmatical or rude," she answered. "But, after all, you don't know Selina."
"Why not?" he asked. "I have talked with her as long as with you—and I feel that I know you quite well."