“You said, you know,” said Tony, “that you wanted company; but, of course——” He moved from the wall.
“Oh! stay if you like. Young chaps never will go to bed. If they only knew what they were laying in store for themselves they’d be a bit more careful. When you get to be an old buffer as I am——”
“Old!” Tony laughed. “Why, you’re not old.”
“Why, you’re one of the strongest-looking men I’ve ever seen.” Tony’s voice was a note of intense admiration.
Maradick laughed grimly. “It isn’t your physical strength that counts, it’s the point of view—the way you look at things and the way people look at you.”
The desire to talk grew with him; he didn’t want to think, he couldn’t sleep—why not talk?
“But forty anyhow,” said Tony, “isn’t old. Nobody thinks you’re old at forty.”
“Oh, don’t they? Wait till you are, you’ll know.”
“Oh, damn your books! what do they know about it? Everyone takes things from books nowadays instead of getting it first hand. People stick themselves indoors and read a novel or two and think they know life—such rot!”
Tony laughed. “I say,” he said, “you don’t think like that always, I know—it’s only just for an argument.”
Maradick suddenly twisted round and faced Tony. He put his hand on his shoulder.
“I say, kid,” he said, “go to bed. It doesn’t do a chap of your age any good to talk to a pessimistic old buffer like myself. I’ll only growl and you won’t be the better for it. Go to bed!”
“I think I’ll stay. I expect you’ve got the pip, and it always does a chap good, if he’s got the pip, to talk to somebody.”
“Oh yes! last year. I shan’t come again.”
“It unsettles you. It doesn’t do to be unsettled when you get to my time of life.”
Maradick considered. How exactly did he mean—unsettles? There was no doubt that it did, though.
“Oh, I’m not much good at explaining, but when you’ve lived a certain time you’ve got into a sort of groove—bound to, I suppose. I’ve got my work, just like another man. Every morning breakfast the same time, same rush to the station, same train, same morning paper, same office, same office-boy, same people; back in the evening, same people again, same little dinner, same little nap—oh, it’s like anyone else. One gets into the way of thinking that that’s life, bounded by the Epsom golf course and the office in town. All the rest one has put aside, and after a time one thinks that it isn’t there. And then a man comes down here and, I don’t know what it is, the place or having nothing to do upsets you and things are all different.” Then, after a moment, “I suppose that’s what a holiday’s meant for.”