“And what is the appointment you have got?” he asked at length, dismissing his own affairs with impatience.
It was that of mathematical lecturer at a London college.
“I shall have a hundred and fifty a year, and be able to take private pupils. On two hundred, at least, I can count, and there are possibilities I won’t venture to speak of, because it doesn’t do to be too hopeful. Two hundred a year is a great advance for me.”
“Quite enough, I suppose,” said Everard kindly.
“Not—not enough. I must make a little more somehow.”
“Hollo! Why this spirit of avarice all at once?”
The mathematician gave a shrill, cackling laugh, and rolled upon his chair.
“I must have more than two hundred. I should be satisfied with three hundred, but I’ll take as much more as I can get.”
“My revered tutor, this is shameless. I came to pay my respects to a philosopher, and I find a sordid worldling. Look at me! I am a man of the largest needs, spiritual and physical, yet I make my pittance of four hundred and fifty suffice, and never grumble. Perhaps you aim at an income equal to my own?”
“I do! What’s four hundred and fifty? If you were a man of enterprise you would double or treble it. I put a high value on money. I wish to be rich!”