G. I haven't exactly put it before her. She's the best little woman in the world, Jack, and all that—but she wouldn't counsel a man to stick to his calling if it came between him and her. At least, I think—
M. Never mind. Don't tell her what you told me. Go on the Peerage and Landed-Gentry tack.
G. She'd see through it. She's five times cleverer than I am.
M. (Aside.) Then she'll accept the sacrifice and think a little bit worse of him for the rest of her days.
G. (Absently.) I say, do you despise me?
M. 'Queer way of putting it. Have you ever been asked that question? Think a minute. What answer used you to give?
G. So bad as that? I'm not entitled to expect anything more, but it's a bit hard when one's best friend turns round and—
M. So I have found. But you will have consolations—Bailiffs and Drains and Liquid Manure and the Primrose League, and, perhaps, if you're lucky, the Colonelcy of a Yeomanry Cav-al-ry Regiment—all uniform and no riding, I believe. How old are you?
G. Thirty-three. I know it's—
M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J.P. landlord. At fifty you'll own a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be fluttering the dovecotes of—what's the particular dunghill you're going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.