you must join a tennis club. Now I know just the thing—the club to which Vera belongs.”
“Ah, yes! You go down to the City—but there’s nothing there—what I mean to say—you want a pal—and even then—well”—he drawled the word—“we-ell, it’s merely escaping from yourself—killing time.”
“Oh, don’t say that!” exclaimed Beatrice. “You want to enjoy life.”
“Just so! Ah, just so!” exclaimed Mr. Allport. “But all the same—it’s like this—you only get up to the same thing to-morrow. What I mean to say—what’s the good, after all? It’s merely living because you’ve got to.”
“You are too pessimistic altogether for a young man. I look at it differently myself; yet I’ll be bound I have more cause for grumbling. What’s the trouble now?”
“We-ell—you can’t lay your finger on a thing like that! What I mean to say—it’s nothing very definite. But, after all—what is there to do but to hop out of life as quick as possible? That’s the best way.”
Beatrice became suddenly grave.
“You talk in that way, Mr. Allport,” she said. “You don’t think of the others.”
“I don’t know,” he drawled. “What does it matter? Look here—who’d care? What I mean to say—for long?”
“That’s all very easy, but it’s cowardly,” replied Beatrice gravely.
“Nevertheless,” said Mr. Allport, “it’s true isn’t it?”
