"Yes, but now the shades are falling," I said grimly. "It looks as if my life henceforwards will be a long holiday—for you."
He shook his wig mournfully.
"No, I am only out on parole. I have had to give my word of honour to try to set you on your legs again as soon as possible."
"You couldn't have come at a more opportune moment," I cried, remembering how he had found me. "You are a good as well as a great-grandfather, and I am proud of my descent. Won't you have a cigar?"
"Thank you, I never smoke—on earth," said the spirit hurriedly, with a flavour of bitter in his accents. "Let us to the point. You have been reduced to the painful necessity of earning your living."
I nodded silently, and took a sip of lemon-squash. A strange sense of salvation lulled my soul.
"How do you propose to do it?" asked my great-grandfather.
"Oh, I leave that to you," I said confidingly.
"Well, what do you say to a literary career?"
"Eh? What?" I gasped.