“Well, if you want very much to do something like a gentleman you’ve got a capital chance. Take your disappointment like a gentleman.”
I had finished my dinner and had become keenly interested in poor Mr. Searle’s unencouraging—or unencouraged—claim; so interested that I at last hated to hear his trouble reflected in his voice without being able—all respectfully!—to follow it in his face. I left my place, went over to the fire, took up the evening paper and established a post of observation behind it.
His cold counsellor was in the act of choosing a soft chop from the dish—an act accompanied by a great deal of prying and poking with that gentleman’s own fork. My disillusioned compatriot had pushed away his plate; he sat with his elbows on the table, gloomily nursing his head with his hands. His companion watched him and then seemed to wonder—to do Mr. Simmons justice—how he could least ungracefully give him up. “I say, Searle,”—and for my benefit, I think, taking me for a native ingenuous enough to be dazzled by his wit, he lifted his voice a little and gave it an ironical ring—“in this country it’s the inestimable privilege of a loyal citizen, under whatsoever stress of pleasure or of pain, to make a point of eating his dinner.”
Mr. Searle gave his plate another push. “Anything may happen now. I don’t care a straw.”
“You ought to care. Have another chop and you will care. Have some better tipple. Take my advice!” Mr. Simmons went on.
My friend—I adopt that name for him—gazed from between his two hands coldly before him. “I’ve had enough of your advice.”
“A little more,” said Simmons mildly; “I shan’t trouble you again. What do you mean to do?”
“Nothing.”
“Oh come!”
“Nothing, nothing, nothing!”