“May be—but that was not true; he was not an immoral man. He believed that beautiful ladies had greater difficulties to contend with than others.”
“He might have left you a life interest,” said Patsy; “the beautiful ladies could wait.” While Don Renaldo did not allow himself to criticise Tio Jorge, our sympathy was as balm to him.
“I gave up my home, I gave up Paris—where I was too well known. I had frequented the best society. I came to Seville where I have no friends, where many travelers come;” he dropped into English. “I offré my service to accompany and visit monuments, gib lessons, recommend the hotels!”
“Everybody is bothered about money one way or the other;” Patsy tried to encourage him; “as long as you live, you either have got to earn the money you spend, or spend money that other people have earned. Brace up, Amigo! Think how much more fun it is to earn your own money than to spend money some other fellow has had the fun of earning!”
Don Renaldo looked steadily at him, groping for his meaning. “At first I envied people who have money,” he confessed; “now I envy those who have work that they enjoy.” He took up a book Patsy had told him was written by a friend of ours. “Your friend must be a very rich man.”
“He just makes the two ends meet without lapping!”
“How could he afford to print this book? The binding is elegant, paper, print and engravings, superior; it must have cost a great deal!”
“So the publishers say.”
“Ojalá! If I could only write.”
Poor, pathetic soul, if he could only do any useful thing. A fortune had been spent on his education. He could ride and shoot straight, he could dance, and fence, and play every game under the sun, but his life investment yielded a small, precarious income. His only dividend-bearing stock, all that stood between him and starvation, was a passable knowledge of the French and English languages, part of the accomplishments of his elegant youth.