“It’s a pretty good thing, work, Steve,” said Kirk. “If it does nothing else, it keeps you from thinking.”
He knew it was feeble of him, but he was powerfully impelled to relieve himself by confiding his wretchedness to Steve. He need not say much, he told himself plausibly—only just enough to lighten the burden a little.
He would not be disloyal to Ruth—he had not sunk to that—but, after all Steve was Steve. It was not like blurting out his troubles to a stranger. It would harm nobody, and do him a great deal of good, if he talked to Steve.
He relit his pipe, which had gone out during a tense spell of work on the suspenders.
“Well, Steve,” he said, “what do you think of life? How is this best of all possible worlds treating you?”
Steve deposed that life was pretty punk.
“You’re a great describer, Steve. You’ve hit it first time. Punk is the word. It’s funny, if you look at it properly. Take my own case. The superficial observer, who is apt to be a bonehead, would say that I ought to be singing psalms of joy. I am married to the woman I wanted to marry. I have a son who, not to be fulsome, is a perfectly good sort of son. I have no financial troubles. I eat well. I have ceased to tremble when I see a job of work. In fact, I have advanced in my art to such an extent that shrewd business men like Middleton put the pictorial side of their Undeniable Suspenders in my hands and go off to play golf with their minds easy, having perfect confidence in my skill and judgment. If I can’t be merry and bright, who can? Do you find me merry and bright, Steve?”
“I’ve seen you in better shape,” said Steve cautiously.
“I’ve felt in better shape.”
Steve coughed. The conversation was about to become delicate.