"But—some fathers—haven't such scruples," confided Jaffrey 76 Bretton. With absolutely merciless scrutiny his eyes swept over the swaying young figure before him—hollow temples, narrow chest, twittering wrists, and all. "And if—I hadn't any longer to live—than you evidently have," he added, without a flex of accent, "I don't think I would squander any very large amount of it in forcing tipsy kisses on young girls."
"What would you do?" asked the stranger quite surprisingly.
"God knows!" said Jaffrey Bretton. "But not that!"
"Yes—but what?" pleaded the stranger.
"Search—me!" shrugged Jaffrey Bretton. "That's the whole trouble with 'whooping it up,'" he confided quite frankly. "There's so blamed little to whoop! And it's so soon over! If one only could believe now what the preachers have to say——"
"Preachers?" sniffed the stranger.
"It is, I admit, a sniffy idea," said Jaffrey Bretton, "but undeniably—quaint! Being somewhat to the effect that the pursuit of 'good works,' on the contrary, is an absolutely 77 inexhaustible amusement! Brand-new every morning, I mean! Just as original at night! A perfectly thrilling novelty—even at noon! Heartache in it now and then perhaps but never any headache! Atrophy of the pocket-book perhaps—but never atrophy of the liver!"
"Never—any—headache?" contemplated the stranger. "Not even in the morning, you mean?" Across his face a faint incredulous smile twisted wryly like a twinge of pain. "Oh, now you're joshing!" he said. "In all the world there never was any idea as quaint as that!"
"Oh, nonsense!" snapped Jaffrey Bretton. "I've got an idea of my own that's twice as quaint as that!"
"Such as what?" bridled the stranger.