“We are on worse terms than ever after this
failure. Not he.”
“And you’re not trying to be on good terms,
I suppose?”
“Not I.”
“You are a remarkably silly young man.
You want balance, Leicester, you want balance.
It would be the making of you to have some serious
purpose in life. You will run against something
of the kind soon— you’ll get engaged,
perhaps, and then you’ll regret your happy-go-lucky
ways.” He fumbled amongst a pile of correspondence
and drew out a letter. “Now, look here,
I was thinking of you only a few moments ago.
Here’s a letter from a man who—who—where
is it?—Ah, yes—If you could
raise 400 pounds by the time you are qualified I could
put you on to a splendid thing.”
“Not the remotest chance,” said George.
“The serious purpose must wait. I—”
The Dean waved a hand that asked silence; consulted
the letter. “This is from a man in practice
at a place called Runnygate—one of these
rising seaside resorts—Hampshire—great
friend of mine. He’s got money, and he’s
going to chuck it—doesn’t suit his
wife. I told him I’d find a purchaser if
he would leave it with me. Merely nominal—
only 400 pounds. He says that in a year or so
there’ll be a small fortune in the practice,
because a company is taking the place over to develop
it. You shall have first refusal. Come now,
pull yourself together, Leicester.”
George laughed. He stood up. “Thanks,
I refuse now. What on earth’s the good?”
“Rubbish,” said the Dean. “Think
over that serious interest in life. You never
know your luck.”
George moved to the door. “I know my luck
all right,” he laughed. “Never mind,
I’m not grumbling with it.”
Upon Life: And May Be Missed.
In the ante-room, as it were, of a very short chapter,
we must make ready to receive our heroine. She
is about to spring dazzling upon our pages; will be
our close companion through some moving scenes.
We must collect ourselves, brush our hair, arrange
our dress, prepare our nicest manner.
And as in ante-rooms there are commonly papers laid
about to beguile the tedium, and as the faint rustle
of our heroine’s petticoats is warning that
George’s assertion that he knew his luck is immediately
to be disproved, let us make a tiny little paper on
the folly of such a statement.
For of his luck man has no glimmer of prescience.
Day by day we rattle the box, throw the dice; but
of how these will fall we have no knowledge.
We only hope with the gambler’s feverishness;
and it is this very hazard that keeps us crowding
and pushing to hold our place at the tables where
fortune spins. Grow we sick of the game, sour
with our luck, weary of the hazard, and relinquish
we our place at the table, we are pushed back and
out—elbowed, thrown, trampled.
