"What!--what, at scribbling?"
"Yes."
"Dear me," remarked Clendon père, eyeing his port, "what a lot of money there must be in the world."
"My dear father, literature has improved since the Caxton period."
"But printing has not, Tobias. No, no! Nowadays they use flimsy paper, bad type----"
"But the matter, father; the contents of a book."
"I never read a modern book. Pish! You can't teach an old dog new tricks. I don't believe in your cheap literature."
"It's a good thing for me, at any rate, father."
"Of course. It's an ill wind that blows nobody any good."
"Well, this wind has blown me to you with five hundred a year."