Jeff smiled, without correcting his cousin. “I've been reading about him. Seems to have been a poor hack writer 'who threw away his life in handfuls.' He wrote the finest poem, the best novel, the most charming comedy of his day. He knew how to give, but he didn't know how to take. So he died alone in a garret. He was a failure.”
“Probably his own fault.”
“And on the day of his funeral the stairway was crowded with poor people he had helped. All of them were in tears.”
“What good did that do him? He was inefficient. He might have saved his money and helped them then.”
“Perhaps. I don't know. It might have been too late then. He chose to give his life as he was living it.”
“Another reason for his poverty, wasn't there?”
Jeff flushed. “He drank.”
“Thought so.” James rose triumphantly and put on his overcoat. “Well, think over what I've said.”
“I will. And tell the chancellor I'm much obliged to him for sending you.”
For once the Senior was taken aback. “Eh, what—what?”