Stan Mitchell writes to her, the
mail carrier says. No-o; not so bad-looking, exactly--in that common sort
of way!

CHAPTER IX

"Far be it from me to--to--"

"Cavil or carp?"

"Exactly. Thank you. Beautiful line! Quite Kipling. Far from me to cavil
or carp, Tum-tee-tum-tee-didy, Or shift the shuttle from web or warp. And
all for my dark-eyed lydy! Far be it from me, as above. Nevertheless--"

"Why, then, the exertion?"

"Duty. Friendship. Francis Charles Boland, you're lazy."

"Ferdie," said Francis Charles, "you are right. I am."

"Too lazy to defend yourself against the charge of being lazy?"

"Not at all. The calm repose; that sort of thing--what?"

Mr. Boland's face assumed the patient expression of one misjudged.

"Laziness!" repeated Ferdie sternly. "'Tis a vice that I abhor. Slip me a
smoke."

Francis Charles fumbled in the cypress humidor at Ferdie's elbow; he
leaned over the table and gently closed Ferdie's finger and thumb upon
a cigarette.

"Match," sighed Ferdie.

Boland struck a match; he held the flame to the cigarette's end. Ferdie
puffed. Then he eyed his friend with judicial severity.

"Abominably lazy! Every opportunity--family, education--brains, perhaps.
Why don't you go to work?"

"My few and simple wants--" Boland waved his hand airily. "Besides,
who am I that I should crowd to the wall some worthy and industrious
person?--practically taking the bread from the chappie's mouth, you
might say. No, no!" said Mr. Boland with emotion; "I may have my faults,
but--"

"Why don't you go in for politics?"

"Ferdinand, little as you may deem it, there are limits."

"You have no ambition whatever?"

"By that sin fell the angels--and look at them now!"

"Why not take a whirl at law?"

Boland sat up stiffly. "Mr. Sedgwick," he observed with exceeding
bitterness, "you go too far. Take back your ring! Henceforth we meet
as str-r-r-rangers!"

"Ever think of writing? You do enough reading, Heaven knows."

Mr. Boland relapsed to a sagging sprawl; he adjusted his finger tips
to touch with delicate nicety.

"Modesty," he said with mincing primness, "is the brightest jewel in my
crown. Litter and literature are not identical, really, though the
superficial observer might be misled to think so. And yet, in a higher
sense, perhaps, it may almost be said, with careful limitations, that,
considering certain delicate _nuances_ of filtered thought, as it were,
and making meticulous a