"Yes, Cecil," I answered frankly. "You must remember that to only a few people in this world is it given to be happy and also have pleasure."
With that I marched away. I heard the wild clatter of the pony's hoofs as he galloped off, so I turned for a covert look at him, not in envy, but thinking perhaps of the days we used to canter along together. Suddenly he drew rein and turned in the saddle. I saw him smile.
For that moment, that smile put me all out of gear, and I sat down on a bench to think things over. In a little while the piebald pony flashed by again, and I summed up the situation thus:
There goes Cecil Hash, bachelor. He has everything to make a single life worth living. He thinks he is happy because he has an airy, roomy apartment, an ammonia refrigerator, a full sideboard, and a man; because he belongs to a half-dozen clubs, keeps a car, and a few hunters and polo ponies; because he need not worry about money-matters so long as he adheres to his simple life and limits his wants; because he does not have to learn anything, as he is already smart. He thinks he is happy. He pities me. Let him smile. Really, he is only comfortable, thoroughly comfortable.
"Come boys!" said I, rising. "Mamma says we must be home in time for luncheon to-day."
"What are you laughing at, dad?" Devereux inquired.
And, hang it! I could not have told him whether it was Cecil Hash or J. Madison Mudison.
Somehow my meeting with Cecil made me a little discontented for the time being. It did seem that so long as I had not enough millions to be a really smart married man, I should do something to save the name of Mudison from social oblivion in the next generation, become a captain of industry and buy back what I had lost when I ceased to be a well-known bachelor and became just a well-to-do husband. My suggestion almost killed Gladys at luncheon that day.
"But, my dear Muddy," she said kindly, when she had recovered her breath, "you are absolutely unqualified to earn a living in any way."