"My present misery, Peregrine? Not altogether. Had I been a philosopher and bent to the storm, I might perchance have gone my solitary way a broken and embittered man, but philosophy and bending to storms is not in me, unhappily, for chancing to encounter my faithless friend, I twisted his nose to such a tune that he demanded satisfaction which resulted in my wounding him; after which I consigned my perjured mistress to perdition; after which again, purely because she happened to be a wealthy heiress, my curmudgeonly uncle cast me adrift, cut me off and consigned me to the devil."
"Here is a very moving story!" said I.
"It is, Peregrine, it is, egad—and consequently I have been moving ever since and going to the devil as fast as I can, though sadly hampered by lack of funds."
"What do you mean by 'going to the devil?'"
"Why, there are many ways, Peregrine, as of course you know, but mine would be ale, beer, wine, brandy—had I the necessary money."
"Are you determined on it?"
"Absolutely!" said he, taking off his battered hat to scowl at it and clap it on again. "Absolutely, Peregrine—I am firmly determined to drink myself to the final exodus."
"How much money should you require, Anthony?"
At this he turned to stare with an expression of whimsical dubiety and thereafter fell to rubbing his unshaven chin as rather at a loss.
"Let us say fifty guineas—no, we'll make it a hundred while we're about it—a hundred guineas would do the thing admirably—though to be sure much might be done with less."