“And pray,” said Sir Richard, still frowning at the ceiling, “what do you propose to do with yourself?”

Now, as I looked out upon this fair evening, I became, of a sudden, possessed of an overmastering desire, a great longing for field and meadow and hedgerow, for wood and coppice and shady stream, for sequestered inns and wide, wind-swept heaths, and ever the broad highway in front.  Thus I answered Sir Richard’s question unhesitatingly, and without turning from the window: 

“I shall go, sir, on a walking tour through Kent and Surrey into Devonshire, and thence probably to Cornwall.”

“And with a miserable ten guineas in your pocket?  Preposterous —­absurd!” retorted Sir Richard.

“On the contrary, sir,” said I, “the more I ponder the project, the more enamored of it I become.”

“And when your money is all gone—­how then?”

“I shall turn my hand to some useful employment,” said I; “digging, for instance.”

“Digging!” ejaculated Sir Richard, “and you a scholar—­and what is more, a gentleman!”

“My dear Sir Richard,” said I, “that all depends upon how you would define a gentleman.  To me he would appear, of late years, to have degenerated into a creature whose chief end in life is to spend money he has never earned, to reproduce his species with a deplorable frequency and promiscuity, habitually to drink more than is good for him, and, between whiles, to fill in his time hunting, cock-fighting, or watching entranced while two men pound each other unrecognizable in the prize ring.  Occasionally he has the good taste to break his neck in the hunting field, or get himself gloriously shot in a duel, but the generality live on to a good old age, turn their attention to matters political and, following the dictates of their class, damn reform with a whole-hearted fervor equalled only by their rancor.”

“Deuce take me!” ejaculated Sir Richard feebly, while Mr. Grainger buried his face in his pocket-handkerchief.

“To my mind,” I ended, “the man who sweats over a spade or follows the tail of a plough is far nobler and higher in the Scheme of Things than any of your young ‘bloods’ driving his coach and four to Brighton to the danger of all and sundry.”

Sir Richard slowly got up out of his chair, staring at me open-mouthed.  “Good God!” he exclaimed at last, “the boy’s a Revolutionary.”

I smiled and shrugged my shoulders, but, before I could speak, Mr. Grainger interposed, sedate and solemn as usual: 

“Referring to your proposed tour, Mr. Peter, when do you expect to start?”

“Early to-morrow morning, sir.”

“I will not attempt to dissuade you, well knowing the difficulty,” said he, with a faint smile, “but a letter addressed to me at Lincoln’s Inn will always find me and receive my most earnest attention.”  So saying, he rose, bowed, and having shaken my hand, left the room, closing the door behind him.