“Mustn’t I call him an old rascal? All right, I won’t! But he is, you know! There are lots of his sort in London and in University towns. There are, really—only you won’t believe it—you’re a lovely lady of rose-gardens and country associations, and you don’t understand what these ‘philosophers’ are who moralise on life without having the pluck to live it!”
Her blue eyes lifted towards him with a look of surprise and questioning.
“Why, Jack, you talk quite nobly!” she exclaimed, and laughed. “Like a sort of hero in a book! But even a Philosopher who’ll never see fifty again must have ‘lived’ his life somehow?”
“On other people, no doubt,” said Jack. “The tedious old thing that comes down here so often and persuades you to make such a fuss about him and his learning has very little earning power in him I’ll swear! Besides—I could tell you a thing or two—only you won’t listen.”
“Yes, I will!” she answered, quickly. “Tell me!”
“Well, you ask him one day if he hadn’t a good old aunt, who, when he was a boy spoiled him to death, gave him all he wanted, and left him all her fortune,—a pretty decent one too. He led her an awful life I’ve heard—shook her in bed when she was dying like Queen Elizabeth shaking the woman who failed to give her Essex’s ring—and since he got the money has grown so mean that he can scarcely bear to part with sixpence. That’s why he lives on his friends and lets them pay for him.”
She looked vaguely amused.
“Jack, I think this is a yarn!” she said. “You are too brilliant, dear boy! You don’t know all this for a fact?”
“I don’t know it,” he answered. “But I’ve heard it, and I’m sure it’s true. Why, you can prove it for yourself! When you went with him the other day to the Cinema did he pay for your seat?”
She laughed.