"It don't pay, my dear fellow; moreover, I prefer to be one of the gentlemen of England, who live at home at ease. I shall be quite satisfied with reading all about it, and rejoicing in your exploits."
I smiled and bowed, but felt that he was closely scrutinising me through his glass, which he held in its place by a muscular contraction of the left eye; and I felt moreover, instinctively and intuitively, by some magnetic influence, that this man was my enemy, and yet I had done him no wrong. The aversion was certainly mutual. It was somewhat of the impulse that led Tom Brown of old to dislike Dr. Fell, yet, in my instance, it was not exactly without knowing "why."
I had quickly read the character of this Mr. Guilfoyle. He had cold, cunning, and shifty eyes of a greenish yellow colour. They seldom smiled, even when his mouth did, if that can be called a smile which is merely a grin from the teeth outwards. He was undoubtedly gentlemanlike in air and appearance, always correct in costume, suave to servility when it suited his purpose, but daringly insolent when he could venture to be so with impunity. He had that narrowness of mind which made him counterfeit regret for the disaster of his best friend, while secretly exulting in it, if that friend could serve his purposes no more; the praise or success of another never failed to excite either his envy or his malice; and doating on himself, he thought that all who knew him should quarrel with those against whom he conceived either spleen or enmity. A member of a good club in town, he was fashionable, moderately dissipated, and rather handsome in person. No one knew exactly from what source his income was derived; but vague hints of India stock, foreign bonds, and so forth, served to satisfy the few--and in the world of London few they were indeed--who cared a jot about the matter. Such was Mr. Hawkesby Guilfoyle, of whom the reader shall hear more in these pages.
"And so you don't approve of risking your valuable person in the service of the country?" said I, in a tone which I felt to be a sneering one.
"No; I am disposed to be rather economical of it--think myself too good-looking, perhaps, to fill a hole in a trench. Ha, ha! Moreover, what the deuce do I want with glory or honour?" said he, in a lower tone; "are not self-love or interest, rather than virtue, the true motives of most of our actions?"
"Do you think so?"
"Yes, by Jove! I do."
"A horrid idea, surely!"
"Not at all. Besides, virtues, as they are often called, are too often only vices disguised."
"The deuce!" said Caradoc, who overheard us; "I don't understand this paradox."