“At lunch yesterday.”
“You must not take any notice of that. I was very excited. I am afraid I was not myself.”
“Why afraid? The money is yours.”
“I don’t want it; I won’t have it.”
Mr. Whitcomb had thrust the check in the hands of the advocate, who tore it up immediately.
“Well,” said the solicitor, “I should say at the present time you have undeniable claims to be considered the most remarkable man in London. I can’t fathom what has come over you.”
“I was thrown off my balance a little yesterday,” said Northcote hoarsely.
“Yesterday, my friend, you were a great man; to-day, you are a prig.”
“You are right. Yesterday, a great man stooping to foulness; to-day, a mediocrity aspiring to virtue.”
“Well, my dear boy,” said the solicitor earnestly, “my last words are these. Be guided by your talent. Greatness is written all over you; it is in your eyes; it proceeds out of your mouth. Play up to your destiny, like a wise fellow, and leave hymns and sermons and disquisitions upon morality to the official purveyors of those condiments.”