“Did your grandfather ever eat at your restaurant?”
“Once I invited him, and told him I would pay the bill. He ate a square meal, meat, coffee, and pie, costing sixteen cents. He seemed to relish it very much, but when we were going away he groaned over my extravagance, and predicted that I would die in the poorhouse. I’ve never succeeded in getting him there since.”
“Well, well,” said the farmer, “of all the fools on the footstool, I believe the biggest is the man who deprives himself of vittles to save up money for somebody else to spend. I’m too selfish, for my part.”
“There isn’t a day that grandfather doesn’t groan over my foolish extravagance,” continued Paul. “Sometimes it makes me laugh, but oftener it makes me ashamed.”
“You don’t feel much attachment to him, then?”
“No, sir; perhaps I ought, as he has been my guardian so long, but you saw him yourself, sir—a poor, shabby, dirty old man! How can I feel attached to him?”
“I confess it must be hard.”
“You don’t think me much to blame, do you?”
“I don’t think you to blame at all. Affection must be natural, and there seems to be no ground for it in this case. But isn’t that the ferry?”