“Have you ever seen a gentleman, except on a tailor’s fashion-plate?”

“Yes.  One, at all events; my father.  However, we won’t labour that point; we have discussed it before, haven’t we?  Your money would sweeten nothing for me.  It would procure me neither health of body nor peace of mind.  Thanks all the same.”

Mr. Keith, true to his ancestral tenacity, was not easily put off.  He would begin again: 

“George Gissing was a scholar and a man of refinement, like yourself.  You know what he says?  ’Put money in thy purse, for to lack the current coin of the realm is to lack the privileges of humanity.’  The privileges of humanity:  you understand, Eames?”

“Does he say that?  Well, I am not surprised.  I have sometimes noticed gross, unhealthy streaks in Gissing.”

“I will tell you what is unhealthy, Eames.  Your own state of mind.  You derive a morbid pleasure from denying yourself the common emoluments of life.  It’s a form of self-indulgence.  I wish you would open your windows and let the sun in.  You are living by candlelight.  If you analysed yourself closely—­”

“I don’t analyse myself closely.  I call it a mistake.  I try to see soberly.  I try to think logically.  I try to live becomingly.”

“I am glad you don’t always succeed,” Keith would reply, with a horrible accent on the word “always.”  “Heaven shield me from a clean-minded man!”

“We have touched on that subject once or twice already, have we not?  Your arguments will never entangle me, though I think I can be fair to them.  Money enables you to multiply your sensations—­to travel about, and so forth.  In doing so, you multiply your personality, as it were; you lengthen your days, figuratively speaking; you come in contact with more diversified aspects of life than a person of my limited means can afford to do.  The body, you say, is a subtle instrument to be played upon in every variety of manner and rendered above all things as sensitive as possible to pleasurable impressions.  In fact, you want to be a kind of Aeolian harp.  I admit that this is more than a string of sophisms; you may call it a philosophy of life.  But it is not my philosophy.  It does not appeal to me in the least.  You will get no satisfaction out of me, Keith, with your hedonism.  You are up against a brick wall.  You speak of my deliberately closing up avenues of pleasure.  They ought to be closed up, I say, if a man is to respect himself.  I do not call my body a subtle instrument; I call it a damned nuisance.  I don’t want to be an Aeolian harp.  I don’t want my sensations multiplied; I don’t want my personality extended; I don’t want my outlook widened; I don’t want money; I don’t want aspects of life.  I’m positive, I’m literal.  I know exactly what I want.  I want to concern myself with what lies under my hand.  I want to be allowed to get on with my work.  I want to bring old Perrelli up to date.”

“My dear fellow!  We all love you for that.  And I am delighted to think you are not really clean-minded, in spite of all these lofty protestations.  Because you aren’t, are you?”