Simon the Jester | Page 9

physical and pecuniary inconvenience in order to avoid regular
employment. They are the tramps of the fashionable world. But in vain
do they sing to Dale of the joys of silk-hatted and patent-leather-booted
vagabondage and deride his habits of industry; Dale turns a deaf ear to
them and urges on his strenuous career. Rogers, coming in to clear
away the breakfast things, was despatched by my young friend to fetch
a portfolio from the hall. It contained, he informed me, the unanswered
letters of the past fortnight with which he had found himself
unqualified to deal. He grasped the whole bundle of correspondence,
and invited me to follow him to the library and start on a solid
morning's work. I obeyed meekly. He sat down at the big table,
arranged the pile in front of him, took a pencil from the tray, and
began:
"This is from Finch, of the /Universal Review/."
I put my hand on his shoulder.
"Tell him, my boy, that it's against my custom to breakfast at afternoon

tea, and that I hope his wife is well."
At his look of bewilderment I broke into a laugh.
"He wants me to write a dull article for his stupid paper, doesn't he?"
"Yes, on Poor Law Administration."
"I'm not going to do it. I'm not going to do anything these people ask
me. Say 'No, no, no, no,' to everybody."
"In Heaven's name, Simon," he cried, laying down his pencil, "what has
come over you?"
"Old age," said I.
He uttered his usual interjection, and added that I was only thirty-
seven.
"Age is a relative thing," I remarked. "Babes of five have been known
to die of senile decay, and I have seen irresponsible striplings of
seventy."
"I really think Eleanor Faversham had better come back from Sicily."
I tapped the letter still in my hand. "She's coming."
"I'm jolly glad to hear it. It's all my silly fault that she went away. I
thought she was getting on your nerves. But you want pulling together.
That confounded place you've been to has utterly upset you."
"On the contrary," said I, "it has steadied and amplified my conception
of sublunary affairs. It has shown me that motley is much more
profitable wear than the edged toga of the senator--"
"Oh, for God's sake, dry up," cried young England, "and tell me what
answers I'm to give these people!"
He seemed so earnest about it that I humoured him; and my

correspondents seemed so earnest that I humoured them. But it was a
grim jest. Most of the matters with which I had to deal appeared so
trivial. Only here and there did I find a chance for eumoiriety. The
Wymington Hospital applied for their annual donation.
"You generally give a tenner," said Dale.
"This time I'll give them a couple of hundred," said I.
Dale earmarked the amount wonderingly; but when I ordered him to
send five pounds apiece to the authors of various begging letters he
argued vehemently and quoted the Charity Organisation Society.
"They're frauds, all of them," he maintained.
"They're poor necessitous devils, at any rate," said I, "and they want the
money more than I do."
This was a truth whose significance Dale was far from realising. Of
what value, indeed, is money to me? There is none to whom I can
usefully bequeath my little fortune, my sisters having each married rich
men. I shall not need even Charon's obolus when I am dead, for we
have ceased to believe in him--which is a pity, as the trip across the
Styx must have been picturesque. Why, then, should I not deal myself a
happy lot and portion by squandering my money benevolently during
my lifetime?
It behooves me, however, to walk warily in this as in other matters, for
if my actions too closely resemble those of a lunatic at large, trustees
may be appointed to administer my affairs, which would frustrate my
plans entirely.
When my part in the morning's work was over, I informed my secretary
that I would go out and take the air till lunch-time.
"If you've nothing better to do," said he, "you might run round to
Eccleston Square and see my mother."

"For any particular reason?"
"She wants to see you. Home for inebriate parrots or something. Gave
me a message for you this morning."
"I'll wait," said I, "on Lady Kynnersley with pleasure."
I went out and walked down the restful covered way of the Albany to
the Piccadilly entrance, and began my taking of the air. It was a soft
November day, full of blue mist, and invested with a dying grace by a
pale sunshine struggling through thin, grey rain-cloud. It was a faded
lady of a day--a lady of waxen cheeks, attired in pearl-grey