—I've got out of the habit of lying to you, old man. Jack, you won't? . . . But I know you won't.
M.—Of course not. (Half aloud.) The Pinks are paying dearly for their Pride.
G.—Eh! Wha—at?
M.—Don't you know? We've called Mrs. Gadsby the Pride of the Pink Hussars ever since she came to us.
G.—Tisn't her fault. Don't think that. It's all mine.
M.—What does she say?
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 dovecots of—what's the particular dunghill you're going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.
