“It depends on what one reckons luck,” was the dry response.
“That’s just like you favoured chaps—always grudging in your thanks. You expect the world to come to heel, and it usually does.”
“Yes; and yaps at your trouser hems until it frays them. I’ve been out at elbow and empty in pocket... If that’s luck I don’t appreciate it. I’ve no desire to have the world at my heels, with its sneaking hands dipping into my pockets, and its servile lips smiling while its teeth worry holes in my clothes. I like to face the enemy and have my foot on it.”
“You, to talk of the world as your enemy! Why, man alive, it gives you all you ask for.”
Lawless looked gloomy enough for a wealthy and successful lover. The other’s envying admiration gave him no pleasure. He took up his glass and drained it. Both men had been drinking freely, but both were well seasoned, and, save for their flushed faces, there was no outward sign of the quantity of wine they had imbibed.
“I wish to God,” Van Bleit said, “that I were as successful in my wooing as you. Give me your secret, Grit... I believe it’s that damned scar on your jaw that helps you with the women—that, and a certain dash you have.”
“Oh! call it swagger,” growled Lawless.
“No,—damn you!—I would if I could; but it’s not that. All things considered, you’re a fairly modest beast.”
“I’ve not had so much to make me vain as you imagine,” Lawless answered, and added curtly: “Look here, Karl, if you don’t wish to be offensive, give over personalities. I’m sick of myself.”
Van Bleit looked slightly annoyed.