“Well, Helmstone,” said Standard, inaudibly drumming on the slab, “what do you think of your new acquaintance?”
The last two words tingled with a peculiar and novel significance.
“New acquaintance indeed,” echoed I. “Standard, I owe you a thousand thanks for introducing me to one of the most singular men I have ever seen. It needed the optical sight of such a man to believe in the possibility of his existence.”
“You rather like him, then,” said Standard, with ironical dryness.
“I hugely love and admire him, Standard. I wish I were Hautboy.”
“Ah? That’s a pity now. There’s only one Hautboy in the world.”
This last remark set me to pondering again, and somehow it revived my dark mood.
“His wonderful cheerfulness, I suppose,” said I, sneering with spleen, “originates not less in a felicitous fortune than in a felicitous temper. His great good sense is apparent; but great good sense may exist without sublime endowments. Nay, I take it, in certain cases, that good sense is simply owing to the absence of those. Much more, cheerfulness. Unpossessed of genius, Hautboy is eternally blessed.”
“Ah? You would not think him an extraordinary genius then?”
“Genius? What! Such a short, fat fellow a genius! Genius, like Cassius, is lank.”