All this time Captain Armine spoke little, but ever to the purpose, and chiefly to the Count Mirabel, who pleased him. Being very handsome, and, moreover, of a distinguished appearance, this silence on the part of Ferdinand made him a general favourite, and even Mr. Bevil whispered his approbation to Lord Catchimwhocan.
‘The fact is,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘it is only boys and old men who are plagued by women. They take advantage of either state of childhood. Eh! Castlefyshe?’
‘In that respect, then, somewhat resembling you, Charley,’ replied his lordship, who did not admire the appeal. ‘For no one can doubt you plagued your father; I was out of my teens, fortunately, before you played écarté.’
‘Come, good old Fyshe,’ said Count Mirabel, ‘take a glass of claret, and do not look so fierce. You know very well that Charley learned everything of you.’
‘He never learned from me to spend a fortune upon an actress,’ said his lordship. ‘I ave spent a fortune, but, thank heaven, it was on myself.’
‘Well, as for that,’ said the Count, ‘I think there is something great in being ruined for one’s friends. If I were as rich as I might have been, I would not spend much on myself. My wants are few; a fine house, fine carriages, fine horses, a complete wardrobe, the best opera-box, the first cook, and pocket-money; that is all I require. I have these, and I get on pretty well; but if I had a princely fortune I would make every good fellow I know quite happy.’
‘Well,’ said Charles Doricourt, ‘you are a lucky fellow, Mirabel. I have had horses, houses, carriages, opera-boxes, and cooks, and I have had a great estate; but pocket-money I never could get. Pocket-money was the thing which always cost me the most to buy of all.’
The conversation now fell upon the theatre. Mr. Bond Sharpe was determined to have a theatre. He believed it was reserved for him to revive the drama. Mr. Bond Sharpe piqued himself upon his patronage of the stage. He certainly had a great admiration of actresses. There was something in the management of a great theatre which pleased the somewhat imperial fancy of Mr. Bond Sharpe. The manager of a great theatre is a kind of monarch. Mr. Bond Sharpe longed to seat himself on the throne, with the prettiest women in London for his court, and all his fashionable friends rallying round their sovereign. He had an impression that great results might be obtained with his organising energy and illimitable capital. Mr. Bond Sharpe had unbounded confidence in the power of capital. Capital was his deity. He was confident that it could always produce alike genius and triumph. Mr. Bond Sharpe was right: capital is a wonderful thing, but we are scarcely aware of this fact until we are past thirty; and then, by some singular process, which we will not now stop to analyse, one’s capital is in general sensibly diminished. As men advance in life, all passions resolve themselves into money. Love, ambition, even poetry, end in this.
‘Are you going to Shropshire’s this autumn, Charley?’ said Lord Catchimwhocan.
‘Yes, I shall go.’