“Does it matter?”
“To get yourself disliked? Well, that depends upon circumstances. Some people get on all the better for being disliked—others do not. For instance, I am a plain-dealing man,—I speak the brutal truth,—therefore I am disliked.”
She laughed a little.
“Oh, how can you say so? Have you not often told me that you are amusing and clever, and that you are sought after because you can tell good stories and are witty?”
He puffed out a very large and successful O.
“Have I told you as much as that? All about myself? Dear me!” He seemed blandly surprised. “I have really gone very far in my confidences! But I don’t retract. I am amusing,—when I like. No one can be more so. I am never dull. Occasionally I am sleepy—that is, when I am bored. I find myself in that condition when Mr. Durham is here. I am never at my best in his company.”
“I’m sorry!” said the Sentimentalist, gently. “He is really such a kind old man!”
The philosopher nodded tolerantly.
“Naturally! To you he would appear a kind old man. To me kind old men no longer appeal. I have nothing to give them. I shake my head at them and say ‘Go away.’”
She smiled.