"By Jove! if conceit could carry the day!"
"No, there is no conceit," I persisted. "Is it conceit to say my hair is black? It is black, and everybody can see it is. I have nothing to do with it. Nature made it black, and black it is, and I know it. Should I gain anything by contending that it was red? I don't see that I should. However," I added, laughing, "The point is of no consequence. Put me down as a fifth-rate writer, if you like, until I become the fashion!"
"It does not seem you ever will, at this pace," he said quietly.
"Very good," I answered, equally quietly.
"Then you will not have the trouble of changing your opinion."
There was a long silence then. We each smoked without a word. At twenty minutes to ten my father got up. He always went to bed horribly early.
"What are you going to do, Victor?"
"I am going out," I answered, getting up and stretching myself.
"Will you be late?"
"Probably. I got no sleep last night, nor the night before. It's no earthly use my going to bed when I feel like this. I can't get to sleep by repeating hymns, as some fellow suggested the other day."