iscussion with his friend, seeing
how profitless such encounters are in general, and how likely to
embitter intercourse; so he merely took his hat and moved towards the
door.

"Where are you going? Not to that odious task of photography, I hope?"
cried Calvert.

"Yes," said the other, smiling; "I am making a complete series of views
of the lake, and some fine day or other I'll make water-colour drawings
from them."

"How I hate all these fine intentions that only point to more work. Tell
me of a plan for a holiday, some grand scheme for idleness, and I am
with you; but to sit quietly down and say, 'I'll roll that stone up a
hill next summer, or next autumn,' that drives me mad."

"Well, I'll not drive you mad. I'll say nothing about it," said Loyd,
with a good-natured smile.

"But won't you make me these drawings, these jottings of my tour amongst
the Pyramids?"

"Not for such an object as you want them to serve."

"I suppose, when you come to practise at the bar, you'll only defend
innocence and protect virtue, eh? You'll, of course, never take the
brief of a knave, or try to get a villain off. With your principles, to
do so would be the basest of all crimes."

"I hope I'll never do that deliberately which my conscience tells me I
ought not to do."

"All right. Conscience is always in one's own keeping--a guest in the
house, who is far too well bred to be disagreeable to the family.
Oh, you arch hypocrite! how much worse you are than a reprobate like
myself!"

"I'll not dispute that."

"More hypocrisy!"

"I mean that, without conceding the point, it's a thesis I'll not
argue."

"You ought to have been a Jesuit, Loyd. You'd have been a grand fellow
in a long black soutane, with little buttons down to the feet, and a
skull-cap on your head. I think I see some poor devil coming to you
about a 'cas de conscience,' and going away sorely puzzled with your
reply to him."

"Don't come to me with one of yours, Calvert, that's all," said Loyd,
laughing, as he hurried off.

Like many men who have a strong spirit of banter in them, Calvert was
vexed and mortified when his sarcasm did not wound. "If the stag will
not run, there can be no pursuit," and so was it that he now felt angry
with Loyd, angry with himself. "I suppose these are the sort of fellows
who get on in life. The world likes their quiet subserviency, and
their sleek submissiveness. As for me, and the like of me, we are
'not placed.' Now for a l