"Certingly, sir."
"To-day is my birthday, Brimberly, and to-night I've reached a kind of 'jumping off' place in my life, and—between you and me—I'm seriously thinking of—er—jumping off!"
"I crave parding, sir?"
"I'm thirty-five years old," continued Young R., his frown growing blacker, "and I've never done anything really worth while in all my useless life! Have the goodness to look at me, will you?"
"With pleasure, sir!"
"Well, what do I look like?"
"The very hacme of a gentleman, sir!"
"Kind of you, Brimberly, but I know myself for an absolutely useless thing—a purposeless, ambitionless wretch, drifting on to God knows what. I'm a hopeless wreck, a moral derelict, and it has only occurred to me to-night—but"—and here the speaker paused to flick the ash from his cigar—"I fear I'm boring you?"
"No, sir—ho, no, not at all, indeed, sir!"
"You're very kind, Brimberly—light a cigarette! Ah, no, pardon me, you prefer my cigars, I know."