“You are not given to introspection, Brimberly?”

“Intro—­ahem!  No, sir, not precisely—­’ardly that, sir, and then only very occasional, sir!”

“Then you’ve never got on to yourself—­got wise to yourself—­seen yourself as you really are?”

Mr. Brimberly goggled and groped for his whisker.

“I mean,” pursued his master, “you have never seen all your secret weaknesses and petty meannesses stripped stark naked, have you?”

“N-naked, sir!” faltered Mr. Brimberly, “very distressing indeed, sir—­oh, dear me!”

“It’s a devilish unpleasant thing,” continued Young R., scowling at the fire again, “yes, it’s a devilish unpleasant thing to go serenely on our flowery way, pitying and condemning the sins and follies of others and sublimely unconscious of our own until one day—­ah, yes—­one day we meet Ourselves face to face and see beneath all our pitiful shams and hypocrisies and know ourselves at last for what we really are—­behold the decay of faculties, the degeneration of intellect bred of sloth and inanition and know ourselves at last—­for exactly what we are!”

Mr. Brimberly stared at the preoccupation of his master’s scowling brow and grim-set mouth, and, clutching a soft handful of whisker, murmured:  “Certingly, sir!”

“When I was a boy,” continued Ravenslee absently, “I used to dream of the wonderful things I would do when I was a man—­by the way, you’re quite sure I’m not boring you—?”

“No, sir—­certingly not, sir—­indeed, sir!”

“Take another cigar, Brimberly—­oh, put it in your pocket, it will do to—­er—­to add to your collection!  But, as I was saying, as a boy I was full of a godlike ambition—­but, as I grew up, ambition and all the noble things it leads to, sickened and died—­died of a surfeit of dollars!  And to-day I am thirty-five and feel that I can’t—­that I never shall—­do anything worth while—­”

“But, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Brimberly with a bland and reassuring smile, “you are one as don’t have to do nothing—­you’re rich!”

Mr. Ravenslee started.

“Rich!” he cried, and turning, he glanced at Mr. Brimberly, and his square chin looked so very square and his grey eyes so very piercing that Mr. Brimberly, loosing his whisker, coughed again and shifted his gaze to the Persian rug beneath his feet; yet when Young R. spoke again, his voice was very soft and sleepy.

“Rich!” he repeated, “yes, that’s just the unspeakable hell of it—­it’s money that has crippled all endeavours and made me what I am!  Rich?  I’m so rich that my friends are all acquaintances—­so rich that I might buy anything in the world except what I most desire—­so rich that I am tired of life, the world, and everything in the world, and have been seriously considering a—­er—­a radical change.  It is a comfort to know that we may all of us find oblivion when we so desire.”

“Oblivion!” nodded Mr. Brimberly, mouthing the word sonorously, “oblivion, sir, certingly—­my own sentiments exactly, sir—­for, though not being a marrying man myself, sir, I regard it with a truly reverent heye and ’umbly suggest that for you such a oblivious change would be—­”