This time there was a distinct shadow of pain in Harold’s stare; and he preserved a rueful silence till the brougham drew up at Scott’s. He followed his father into the shop, however, and submitted stolidly to the operation of being fitted. When it came to paying, he pulled a very long face indeed, and appeared to have an actual mechanical difficulty in squeezing the essential coin from his purse.
“Now you look like a Christian,” his father averred, as they got back into the carriage.
“I hate to throw away money, though.”
“For goodness’ sake don’t tell me you’re close-fisted.”
“I don’t think it’s right to throw away money.”
“That’s a New England prejudice. You’ll soon get over it here.”
“I don’t know. A man ought never to be wasteful—especially with what he hasn’t earned.”
“Ah, there’s where I can’t agree with you. If a man had earned his money he might naturally have some affection for it, and wish to keep it. But those who like you and me are entirely vicarious in their sacrifice, and spend what other folk have done the grubbing for, can afford to be royally free-handed.”
Harold made no response, but it was evident that he had a load on his mind for the remainder of their drive.
At Mrs. Midsomer-Norton’s the young man’s bewilderment and melancholy seemed to deepen into something not far short of horror, as he formed one of a group about his father, and heard that personage singsong out, with an air of intense fatigue, his flippant inconsequences.