reading the paper, with one leg thrown over the arm of the office-chair,
and the smoke languidly curling from his lips, Mr. Boniface Newt felt
profoundly, but vaguely, uncomfortable, as if he had some slight
prescience of a future of indolence for the hope of the house of Newt.

As his father entered, Mr. Abel dropped by his side the hand still
holding the newspaper, and, without removing the cigar, said, through
the cloud of smoke he blew,

"Father, you were imparting your philosophy of life."

The older gentleman, somewhat discomposed, answered,

"Yes, I was saying what a pity it is that men are such d----d rascals,
because they force every body else to be so too. But what can you do?
It's all very fine to talk, but we've got to live. I sha'n't be such an
ass as to run into the street and say, 'I gave ten cents a yard for those
goods, but you must pay me twenty.' Not at all. It's other men's business
to find that out if they can. It's a great game, business is, and the
smartest chap wins. Every body knows we are going to get the largest
price we can. People are gouging, and shinning, and sucking all round.
It's give and take. I am not here to look out for other men, I'm here to
take care of myself--for nobody else will. It's very sad, I know; it's
very sad, indeed. It's absolutely melancholy. Ah, yes! where was I? Oh!
I was saying that a lie well stuck to is better than the truth wavering.
It's perfectly dreadful, my son, from some points of view--Christianity,
for instance. But what on earth are you going to do? The only happy
people are the rich people, for they don't have this eternal bother how
to make money. Don't misunderstand me, my son; I do not say that you must
always tell stories. Heaven forbid! But a man is not bound always to tell