'He amused me devilishly,' said Wylder, 'with a sort of exhortation he treated me to; he's a delightfully impudent chap, and gave me to understand I was a limb of the Devil, and he a saint. I told him I was better than he, in my humble opinion, and so I am, by chalks. I know very well I'm a miserable sinner, but there's mercy above, and I don't hide my faults. I don't set up for a light or a saint; I'm just what the Prayer-book says--neither more nor less--a miserable sinner. There's only one good thing I can safely say for myself--I am no Pharisee; that's all; I air no religious prig, puffing myself, and trusting to forms, making long prayers in the market-place' (Mark's quotations were paraphrastic), 'and thinking of nothing but the uppermost seats in the synagogue, and broad borders, and the praise of men--hang them, I hate those fellows.' So Mark, like other men we meet with, was proud of being a Publican; and his prayer was--'I thank Thee that I am not as other men are, spiritually proud, formalists, hypocrites, or even as this Pharisee.' 'Do you wish another game?' I asked. 'Just now,' said Wylder, emitting first a thin stream of smoke, and watching its ascent. 'Dorcas is the belle of the county; and she likes me, though she's odd, and don't show it the way other girls would. But a fellow knows pretty well when a girl likes him, and you know the marriage is a sensible sort of thing, and I'm determined, of course, to carry it through; but, hang it, a fellow can't help thinking sometimes there are other things besides money, and Dorcas is not my style. Rachel's more that way; she's a _tremendious_ fine girl, by Jove! and a spirited minx, too; and I think,' he added, with an oath, having first taken two puffs at his cigar, 'if I had seen her first, I'd have thought twice before I'd have got myself into this business.' I only smiled and shook my head. I did not believe a word of it. Yet, perhaps, I was wrong. He knew very well how to take care of his money; in fact, compared with other young fellows, he was a bit of a screw. But he could do a handsome and generous thing for himself. His selfishness would expand nobly, and rise above his prudential considerations, and drown them sometimes; and he was the sort of person, who, if the fancy were strong enough, might marry in haste, and repent--and make his wife, too, repent--at leisure. 'What do you laugh at, Charlie?' said Wylder, grinning himself. 'At your confounded grumbling, Mark. The luckiest dog in England! Will nothing content you?' 'Why, I grumble very little, I think, considering how well off I am,' rejoined he, with a laugh. 'Grumble! If you had a particle of gratitude, you'd build a temple to Fortune--you're pagan enough for it, Mark.' 'Fortune has nothing to do with it,' says Mark, laughing again. 'Well, certainly, neither had you.'