Maradick laughed grimly. “It isn’t your physical strength that counts, it’s the point of view—the way you look at things and the way people look at you.”
The desire to talk grew with him; he didn’t want to think, he couldn’t sleep—why not talk?
“But forty anyhow,” said Tony, “isn’t old. Nobody thinks you’re old at forty.”
“Oh, don’t they? Wait till you are, you’ll know.”
“Well, Balzac——”
“Oh, damn your books! what do they know about it? Everyone takes things from books nowadays instead of getting it first hand. People stick themselves indoors and read a novel or two and think they know life—such rot!”
Tony laughed. “I say,” he said, “you don’t think like that always, I know—it’s only just for an argument.”
Maradick suddenly twisted round and faced Tony. He put his hand on his shoulder.
“I say, kid,” he said, “go to bed. It doesn’t do a chap of your age any good to talk to a pessimistic old buffer like myself. I’ll only growl and you won’t be the better for it. Go to bed!”
Tony looked up at him without moving.