"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 allowance for the personal equation--"

"Grisly ass! Well, then, what's the matter with the army?"

"My prudence is such," responded Mr. Boland dreamily--"in fact, my
prudence is so very such, indeed--one may almost say so extremely