Wycherley, merry dog that he is, glances around him with the air of a king. He has a faculty of seeing luxury behind misery, of making much out of little.
“Ah! Aleck was a shrewd one to guess what comforts I enjoy. There is my luxurious armchair; this my heap of magazines and papers,”—picking up a penny afternoon News—“and the whole scene one of comfort. Ah, this is living. Now for my meerschaum, my slippers. Hang the luck! I believe that valet has misplaced them again. Never mind, this will do.”
He kicks off his shoes, opens a drawer in the table and takes out a clay-pipe minus half the stem. This he fills with scrap tobacco, holds it to the candle and puffs away with an enjoyment that cannot all be assumed.
“A strange night it has been. To think I’d meet Aleck and Bob Rocket so near together—two fellows I regard so highly. It’s a queer world, and a mighty small one, too, when you come down to it. Heigho! my chances of wedding the heiress are nil. Upon the whole I must confess to a certain relief. How foolish for a man to give up the free life of a gay bachelor, with its delightful uncertainties, for double harness and the harassing cares of stocks and bonds. Ugh! deliver me. See how cozy I am! Who would care to change it?”
Then he consults his memorandum book and makes a few notes on the market, gaining his points from the closing sales as reported in the newspaper. After this he yawns.
“Heigho! I feel weary. My sumptuous couch invites repose. It calls not in vain. To sleep, to dream, perchance to discover in second sight how to-morrow’s market will jump. ’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished.”
His preparations for going to bed are simple indeed. He removes his coat and vest; his collar and necktie follow; then he crawls under the army blanket.
“The deuce! I forgot to douse that ten candle electric light. Shall I call Robert to press the button? Let the weary retainer sleep. Thus bright genius overcomes all obstacles.”
One of his shoes flies through space with unerring accuracy, over goes beer bottle and candle, and, rolling off the table, lands with a thump on the bare floor.
“Eureka! score one for Sir Claude de Wycherley. Must practice that little game; save immense amount of trouble. Hard on the bottle, though. Now to woo the gentle goddess of slumber. Think of the untold thousands rolling on feather beds and hair mattresses. Little they know of the genuine luxury of a shuck bed. This is comfort now, you bet.”