Mr. Waddington pressed him gently along.
"I am not sure," he muttered, "that we are quite in the mood to buy ties. I want to ask you a question, Burton."
"Go ahead."
"You were telling me about this wonderful scheme of your friend the professor's, to make—Menatogen, I think you said. Did you part with both your beans?"
"Both," Burton replied, almost fiercely. "But I've another fortnight or so yet. It can't come before—it shan't!"
"You expect, I suppose, to make a great deal of money?" Mr. Waddington continued.
"We shall make piles," Burton declared. "I have had a large sum already for the beans. My pockets are full of money. Queer how light-hearted it makes you feel to have plenty of money. It's a dull world, you know, after all, and we are dull fellows. Think what one could do, now, with some of the notes I have in my pocket! Hire a motor-car, go to some bright place like the Metropole at Brighton—a bright, cheerful, sociable place, I mean, where people who look interesting aren't above talking to you. And then a little dinner, and perhaps a music-hall afterwards, and some supper, and plenty to eat and drink—"
"Burton!" Mr. Waddington gasped. "Stop! Stop at once!"
"Why the dickens should I stop?" Burton demanded.
Mr. Waddington was looking shocked and pained. "You don't mean to tell me," he exclaimed, "that this is your idea of a good time? That you would go to a hotel like the Metropole and mix with the people whom you might meet there, and eat and drink too much, and call it enjoyment? Burton, what has come to you?"