“No--I hate the army--what prospect does it offer the young idiots who are slaving to get into it--to live vagabonds, and die beggars!” “There was the diplomatic corps; but I’ve not brains enough for that.” “Bosh! You don’t want a profession, taking bread out of other people’s mouths. You are my heir--_that’s_ your profession. As to intellect, there is a great deal too much intellect in these days; the world would be far easier to govern if there was less! You have brains enough, my boy, you did very well at Oxford.” “I know that I am very fortunate,” repeated the young man, “and that thousands of fellows would give anything to stand in my shoes.” “Clarence for one,” interrupted his uncle, with a loud chuckle. “But I’m sick of the eternal treadmill round of the London season--Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes, Scotland. Then back to London, and we begin the whole business over again. We see the same people, and do the same things.” “How old are you, Mark?” broke in Mr. Pollitt, excitedly. “Five and twenty.” “One would think you were eighty-five! But it is all the rage to be bored and _blasé_, and to give out that life is not worth living. You are in the height of the fashion, my boy! The fact of the matter is--that you are too prosperous. A blow of real trouble, cutting to the very bone, would do you no harm.” “Perhaps so. Properly speaking, I believe I ought to have been a poor man’s son, and had to work my way. I feel that I could do it. I would not have minded being a soldier, a sailor, an explorer, or even a stock-rider.” “In fact, to put the matter in a nutshell, anything but what you _are_.” “Well, Uncle Dan, you have fought your way up to the front, step by step, and won your spurs, and enjoyed the battle. I should like to take some weapon, and strike into the fray.” Here he suddenly got up, and came over to his uncle, and, putting his hand affectionately on his shoulder said, “I would like to do something to make you”--with a nervous laugh--“proud of me;” and as he looked into his uncle’s shrewd little face, his eyes shone with repressed excitement. “I’m proud enough. You are my own flesh and blood--a good-looking chap, a capital rider, and a gentleman; a bit too fond of dabbling with your nasty, dirty oil paints, a bit dreamy and Quixotic, but----” At this juncture the door was gently pushed open, and a long, hooked nose came slowly into the room, followed by a tall, thin, elderly lady, attired in a clinging mist-coloured robe, and blazing with diamonds. A sallow, discontented-looking person, with a high-bred air, despite her touzled fringe. “So you are _both_ here!” she murmured sweetly. “Yes,” assented Mr. Pollitt; “and here is Mark,” waving a short square hand towards him. “What do you think is his last craze, Selina? He wants to travel for a couple of years, in order to see the world. Just like the hero of a fairy tale.”