"I'm not so sure of that," I said. "I think you have a fair share of work to do here, and that you have done it and are doing it remarkably well."
Absurd! There was not half enough to do to satisfy his Napoleonic ambition. Nothing but the Vicariate of the whole of the Dark Continent for this young man.
"Look here, Father Dan. My parochial work is over every day at four o'clock; and you have taught me to finish the Office, even by anticipation, before dinner. Now, what on earth is a young fellow to do between four o'clock of a winter's evening and ten o'clock, when he retires? Once in a month I dine at Campion's; but the rest of the time, except when I run up to you—"
"And you don't come half enough, you, sir," I said. "I never saw anything like the—pride of young fellows nowadays."
"That's all right, Father Dan," he replied, somewhat more calmly; "but even with all your kindness, what in the world am I to do with my leisure time?"
"Read, and read, and read," I said. "Have you not the whole ocean of human knowledge to dip into?"
"Ah! cui bono?" he replied.
"Cui bono? from you! I never thought I'd hear that fatal word again. Cui bono? from you! Cui bono? from you!"
I was never so startled in my life. It was a dread revelation of dissatisfaction and ennui, that might lead no one knew whither.
"Cui bono?" I said. "Is there any pleasure on this earth comparable to the pleasure of acquiring knowledge? Is there any satisfaction equal to the continuous pursuit of ideas—always coming up to them, and passing them in the insatiable thirst and pursuit? Now, I see clearly that my tastes are not your tastes, and I was wrong in forcing the studies of the classics upon you. But take up philosophy, arrange a horarium for the evenings—so much time for reading, so much for thinking, so much for writing—"