“That’s very good of you, old chap.”
“No; I can’t conscientiously say that you’re a fool.”
“Again? This is becoming cloying. If I don’t mistake, you yourself do a little in the line I suggest.”
“What would be wisdom—comparative wisdom—on my part, might be idiotcy—”
“Comparative idiotcy?”
“Sheer idiotcy, on yours. I have several thousands a year, and I can almost—not quite—but I affirm, almost, afford to talk honestly to the Working man. No candidate for Parliament can quite afford to be honest to the Working man.”
“And the Working man returns the compliment, only he works it off on the general public,” said Harold.
The other man smiled pityingly upon him—the smile of the professor of anatomy upon the student who identifies a thigh bone—the smile which the savant allows himself when brought in contact with a discerner of the obvious.
“No woman is quite frank in her prayers—no politician is quite honest with the Working man.”
“Well. I am prepared to be not quite honest with him too.”