"We are going to give up housekeeping," said the Idiot. "No trouble, I hope," said Mr. Whitechoker. "Lots!" ejaculated the Idiot. "But not very troublesome troubles. The fact is we intend to travel." "To travel, eh?" said the Genial Old Gentleman. "Where?" "Abroad," replied the Idiot. "We have never been abroad, you know. I've been abroad, and Mrs. Idiot has been abroad, but _we_ have never been abroad. We are going together this time, and we are going to take the children, and for a year we propose to see Europe under the most favorable conditions. I think that abroad will seem a little different if we go together." "Undoubtedly," said Mr. Whitechoker. "But London is a cold, godless place." "It is if you go alone," said the Idiot. "And Paris is vile," suggested Mr. Brief. "To the man who has only himself to think of," said the Idiot. "And Italy is dirty," said the Bibliomaniac. "There's water in Venice," observed the Idiot. "Not very clean water, to be sure, but wet enough to wash the edges of the sidewalks." "And travel is uncomfortable," observed the Poet. "Admitted," said the Idiot. "Travel is about the hardest work and the worst-paid work I know of, but we cannot help ourselves. Now that we are rich we must accept the penalties imposed by modern society upon the wealthy. You never knew a rich man to lead a comfortable life, did you, Mr. Pedagog?" "There are few of them who seem to know how," admitted the Schoolmaster. "But--you do." "No doubt," said the Idiot. "But you see I do not wish to be ostentatiously different from my kind, so having made a fortune I am going to live as people of fortune do and be as uncomfortable as I know how." "I don't understand about this fortune," said Mr. Brief. "Have you run up against a rich uncle somewhere, or is this sudden wealth the result of your inventions, concerning which we have heard so much lately?" "Neither," replied the Idiot. "The fact is, I made an investment some years ago in a certain stock, for which I paid twenty-three. I sold it three weeks ago for one hundred and sixty-three, clearing one hundred and forty dollars each on a thousand shares." The Poet gasped. "One hundred and forty thousand dollars profit!" cried Mr. Whitechoker. "Yes," said the Idiot, calmly, "that's about the size of it. Terrible, isn't it? Here I was a happy man; content to stay at home and toil eight hours a day for a small stipend; living in tolerable comfort, and nothing to worry over. All of a sudden this thing happens, and like all other men of wealth I must become a wanderer. I shudder to think of what might have happened if I'd made a million; I shouldn't have had a home at all then." The guests looked at their host with amazement. To most of them he had reached the supreme moment of his idiocy. "Ahem!" said the Poet. "I fail to see why."