“Some men's touch turns everything to gold; mine to brass and deuced gimcrack brass at that. I've never loved a dear gazelle; but if I had, the disastrous animal would have got mange or delirium tremens and turned round and bitten me and given me hydrophobia. I suppose it's because of my general nefariousness. I wish I had been an austere embodiment of the seven deadly virtues like you, amigo. Then I should have waxed fat and prosperous. But there,” he added, lighting a cigar, “that's enough. I don't know why I'm washing you in this torrent of my discontent.”
“If it has done you any good, I am not sorry to have heard it,” said Sylvester. “As for the Colony, I never did think much of the idea, you know. It is outside the sphere of practical affairs altogether. Besides, you could never stay more than a month away from Piccadilly.”
“It meant a means of livelihood for this profitless child of nature, anyway,” said Roderick, watching the wreaths of his cigar-smoke.
“Pardon me if I take a liberty,” said Sylvester, “but I was under the impression that your father made you a good allowance.”
Roderick stared at him for a moment and then laughed loud.
“You don't know Usher senior. How much the old man has, or where the devil it all came from, I have no idea; but I don't get any of it. And when he descends to realms below, he'll bequeath it all to a home for decayed postage-stamp collectors. No; I get what I earn. The Colony was a fixed income.”
“Well, you'll have to settle down to something else,” said Sylvester, consolingly.
“And meanwhile you can go and persuade our fair enthusiast that the Colony is all a fizzle and that she must shed happiness upon the head of your devoted friend at Christmas!”
“I don't think I can do that,” said Sylvester, drily. He pulled out his watch, announced his departure. Roderick shook his hand effusively.
“But, by the way,” said he, “you haven't told me what you came for—my marriage—?”