“That’s enough,” broke in Leighton.  “Let’s stick to the point.  It’s a lucky thing for the progress of the world that riches often take to the wing.  It may happen to any of us at any time.  The amount of stupidity that sweating humanity applies to the task of making a living is colossal.  In about a million years we’ll learn that making a living consists in knowing how to do well any necessary thing.  It’s harder for a gentleman to make a living than for a farm-hand.  But—­come with me.”

He took Lewis to a certain Mecca of mighty appetites in the Strand.  Before choosing a table, he made the round of the roasts, shoulders and fowl.  They were in great domed, silver salvers, each on a barrow, each kept hot over lighted lamps.

Leighton seated himself and ordered.

“Now, boy, without staring take a good look at the man that does the carving.”

One of the barrows was trundled to their table.  An attendant lifted the domed cover with a flourish.  With astounding rapidity the carver took an even cut from the mighty round of beef, then another.  The cover was clapped on again, and the barrow trundled away.

“You saw him?” asked Leighton.

Lewis nodded.

“Well, that chap got through twenty thousand a year,—­pounds, not dollars,—­capital and income, in just five years.  After that he starved.  I know a man that lent him half a crown.  The borrower said he’d live on it for a week.  Then he found out that, despite being a gentleman, there was one little thing he could do well.  He could make a roast duck fall apart as though by magic, and he could handle a full-sized carving-knife with the ease and the grace of a duchess handling a fan.  Wow he’s getting eight hundred a year—­pounds again—­and all he can eat.”

From the eating-house Leighton took Lewis to his club.  He sought out a small room that is called the smoking-room to this day, relic of an age when smokers were still a race apart.  In the corner sat an old man reading.  He was neatly dressed in black.  Beside him was a decanter of port.

Leighton led the way back to the lounge-room.

“Well, did you see him?”

“The old man?” said Lewis.  “Yes, I saw him.”

“That’s Old Ivory,” said Leighton.  “He’s an honorable.  He was cursed by the premature birth—­to him—­of several brothers.  In other words, he’s that saddest of British institutions, a younger son.  His brothers, the other younger sons, are still eating out of the hand of their eldest brother, Lord Bellim.  But not Old Ivory.  He bought himself an annuity ten years ago.  How did he do it?  Well, he had enough intelligence to realize that he hadn’t much.  He decided he could learn to shoot well at fifty yards.  He did.  Then he went after elephants, and got ’em, in a day when they shipped ivory not by the tusk, but by the ton, and sold it at fifteen shillings a pound.”  As they walked back to the flat, Leighton said:  “Now, take your time and think.  Is there anything you know how to do well?”