so
disposed. He considered that such an arrangement would not be a bad one,
especially as the good-natured woman would in course of time cease to
like kissing him, and so free him from the one awkwardness that walked
in the train of matrimony. He told Esme Amarinth of his decision.

Esme sighed.

"So you are to be a capitalist, Reggie," he said. "Will you sing in the
woods near Esher? Will you flute to the great god whom stockbrokers
vulgarly worship? I wonder what a stockbroker is like. I don't think I
have ever seen one. I go out in Society too much, I suppose. Society has
its drawbacks. You meet so few people in it nowadays, and Royalties are
of course strictly tabooed. I was dining with Lady Murray last week and
mentioned the Prince by mistake. She got quite red all down her neck and
snorted--you know how she snorts, as if she had been born a
Baroness!--'One must draw the line somewhere.' The old aristocracy draws
it at Princes now, and who can blame them? Vulgarity has become so
common that it has lost its charm, and I shall really not be surprised
if good manners and chivalry come into vogue again. How strange it will
feel being polite once more, like wearing a long curled wig, and making
a leg and carrying a sword. You would look perfectly charming in a wig,
Reggie, and a cloak of carnation velvet with rosy shadows in the folds.
You would wear it beautifully, as you wear your sins, floating
negligently over your shoulders. Yes, you will be a strange and unique
capitalist. The average capitalist has the face of a Gentile, and the
stupidity of a Jew. I wonder how the fallacy that the Jews are a clever
race grew up? It is not the man who makes money that is clever, it is
the man who spends it. The intelligent pauper is the real genius. I am
an intelligent pauper."

"You are marvellous, Esme. You are like some heavy scent that hangs in
clouds upon the air. You make people aware of you, who have never seen
you, or read you. You are like a fifth element."

"What shall I give you for a wedding present, Reggie? I think I will
give you the book of Common Prayer in the vulgar tongue. One would think
it was something written by a realist. The adjectives would apply to the
productions of George Moore, which are boycotted by Smith on account of
their want of style or something of the sort. If George Moore could only
learn the subtle art of indecency he might be tolerable. As it is, he
is, like Miss Yonge, merely tedious a