“I know that. What form does your ambition take? A colonial judgeship, after ten years of idleness at the bar? A success in literature that shall compensate you for the favourable criticisms of double that period? The ownership of the Derby winner? An American heiress, moving in the best society in Monte Carlo? A co-respondency in brackets with a Countess? All these are the legitimate aspirations of the modern man.”
“Co-respondency as a career has, no doubt, much to recommend it to some tastes,” said Harold. “It appears to me, however, that it would be easy for an indiscreet advocate to over-estimate its practical value.”
“You see, I haven’t yet met the countess.”
“What, then, in heaven’s name do you hope for?”
“Well, I would say Parliament, if I could be sure that that came within the rather narrow restrictions which you assigned to my reply. You said ‘in heaven’s name.’”
“Parliament! Parliament! Great Powers! is it so bad as that with you?”
“I don’t say that it is. I may be able to get over this ambition as I’ve got over others--the stroke oar in the Eight, for instance, the soul of Sarasate, the heart of Miss Polly Floss of the Music Halls. Up to the present, however, I have shown no sign of parting with the surviving ambition of many ambitions.”
“I don’t say that you’re a fool,” said the man called Edmund. He did not speak until the long pause, filled up by the great moan of the Atlantic in the distance and the hollow fitful plunge of the waters upon the rocks of the Irish shore, had become awkwardly long. “I can’t say that you’re a fool.”
“No; I can’t conscientiously say that you’re a fool.”
“Again? This is becoming cloying. If I don’t mistake, you yourself do a little in the line I suggest.”
“What would be wisdom--comparative wisdom--on my part, might be idiotcy--”
“Sheer idiotcy, on yours. I have several thousands a year, and I can almost--not quite--but I affirm, almost, afford to talk honestly to the Working man. No candidate for Parliament can quite afford to be honest to the Working man.”
“And the Working man returns the compliment, only he works it off on the general public,” said Harold.
The other man smiled pityingly upon him--the smile of the professor of anatomy upon the student who identifies a thigh bone--the smile which the _savant_ allows himself when brought in contact with a discerner of the obvious.