“That is something,” said Harry. “A good deal in America,” said Phil. “We talk about the immorality of older countries. Did you ever notice that no class of men are so apt to take to drinking as highly cultivated Americans? It is a very demoralizing position, when one’s tastes outgrow one’s surroundings. Positively, I think a man is more excusable for coveting his neighbor’s wife in America than in Europe, because there is so little else to covet.” “Malbone!” said Hal, “what has got into you? Do you know what things you are saying?” “Perfectly,” was the unconcerned reply. “I am not arguing; I am only testifying. I know that in Paris, for instance, I myself have no temptations. Art and history are so delightful, I absolutely do not care for the society even of women; but here, where there is nothing to do, one must have some stimulus, and for me, who hate drinking, they are, at least, a more refined excitement.” “More dangerous,” said Hal. “Infinitely more dangerous, in the morbid way in which you look at life. What have these sickly fancies to do with the career that opens to every brave man in a great nation?” “They have everything to do with it, and there are many for whom there is no career. As the nation develops, it must produce men of high culture. Now there is no place for them except as bookkeepers or pedagogues or newspaper reporters. Meantime the incessant unintellectual activity is only a sublime bore to those who stand aside.” “Then why stand aside?” persisted the downright Harry. “I have no place in it but a lounging-place,” said Malbone. “I do not wish to chop blocks with a razor. I envy those men, born mere Americans, with no ambition in life but to ‘swing a railroad’ as they say at the West. Every morning I hope to wake up like them in the fear of God and the love of money.” “You may as well stop,” said Harry, coloring a little. “Malbone, you used to be my ideal man in my boyhood, but”-- “I am glad we have got beyond that,” interrupted the other, cheerily, “I am only an idler in the land. Meanwhile, I have my little interests,--read, write, sketch--” “Flirt?” put in Hal, with growing displeasure. “Not now,” said Phil, patting his shoulder, with imperturbable good-nature. “Our beloved has cured me of that. He who has won the pearl dives no more.” “Do not let us speak of Hope,” said Harry. “Everything that you have been asserting Hope’s daily life disproves.” “That may be,” answered Malbone, heartily. “But, Hal, I never flirted; I always despised it. It was always a grande passion with me, or what I took for such. I loved to be loved, I suppose; and there was always something new and fascinating to be explored in a human heart, that is, a woman’s.” “Some new temple to profane?” asked Hal severely. “Never!” said Philip. “I never profaned it. If I deceived, I shared the deception, at least for a time; and, as for sensuality, I had none in me.” “Did you have nothing worse? Rousseau ends where Tom Jones begins.”