“I have made a small inheritance from a great aunt in Wales,” replied Challoner modestly.
“Ah,” said Somerset, “I very much doubt the legitimacy of inheritance. The State, in my view, should collar it. I am now going through a stage of socialism and poetry,” he added apologetically, as one who spoke of a course of medicinal waters.
“And are you really the person of the—establishment?” inquired Challoner, deftly evading the word “shop.”
“A vendor, sir, a vendor,” returned the other, pocketing his poesy. “I help old Happy and Glorious. Can I offer you a weed?”
“Well, I scarcely like ...” began Challoner.
“Nonsense, my dear fellow,” cried the shopman. “We are very proud of the business; and the old man, let me inform you, besides being the most egregious of created beings from the point of view of ethics, is literally sprung from the loins of kings.‘De Godall je suis le fervent.’ There is only one Godall.—By the way,” he added, as Challoner lit his cigar, “how did you get on with the detective trade?”
“I did not try,” said Challoner curtly.
“Ah, well, I did,” returned Somerset, “and made the most incomparable mess of it; lost all my money and fairly covered myself with odium and ridicule. There is more in that business, Challoner, than meets the eye; there is more, in fact, in all businesses. You must believe in them, or get up the belief that you believe. Hence,” he added, “the recognised inferiority of the plumber, for no one could believe in plumbing.”
“A propos,” asked Challoner, “do you still paint?”