“You are a remarkably silly young man. You want balance, Leicester, you want balance. It would be the making of you to have some serious purpose in life. You will run against something of the kind soon--you'll get engaged, perhaps, and then you'll regret your happy-go-lucky ways.” He fumbled amongst a pile of correspondence and drew out a letter. “Now, look here, I was thinking of you only a few moments ago. Here's a letter from a man who--who--where is it?--Ah, yes--If you could raise 400 pounds by the time you are qualified I could put you on to a splendid thing.”
“Not the remotest chance,” said George. “The serious purpose must wait. I--”
The Dean waved a hand that asked silence; consulted the letter. “This is from a man in practice at a place called Runnygate--one of these rising seaside resorts--Hampshire--great friend of mine. He's got money, and he's going to chuck it--doesn't suit his wife. I told him I'd find a purchaser if he would leave it with me. Merely nominal--only 400 pounds. He says that in a year or so there'll be a small fortune in the practice, because a company is taking the place over to develop it. You shall have first refusal. Come now, pull yourself together, Leicester.”
George laughed. He stood up. “Thanks, I refuse now. What on earth's the good?”
“Rubbish,” said the Dean. “Think over that serious interest in life. You never know your luck.”
George moved to the door. “I know my luck all right,” he laughed. “Never mind, I'm not grumbling with it.”
In the ante-room, as it were, of a very short chapter, we must make ready to receive our heroine. She is about to spring dazzling upon our pages; will be our close companion through some moving scenes. We must collect ourselves, brush our hair, arrange our dress, prepare our nicest manner.
And as in ante-rooms there are commonly papers laid about to beguile the tedium, and as the faint rustle of our heroine's petticoats is warning that George's assertion that he knew his luck is immediately to be disproved, let us make a tiny little paper on the folly of such a statement.
For of his luck man has no glimmer of prescience. Day by day we rattle the box, throw the dice; but of how these will fall we have no knowledge. We only hope with the gambler's feverishness; and it is this very hazard that keeps us crowding and pushing to hold our place at the tables where fortune spins. Grow we sick of the game, sour with our luck, weary of the hazard, and relinquish we our place at the table, we are pushed back and out--elbowed, thrown, trampled.