How old are you?
G. Thirty-three. I know it's--
M. At forty you'll be a fool of a J.P. landlord. At fifty you'll own
a bath-chair, and The Brigadier, if he takes after you, will be
fluttering the dovecotes of--what's the particular dunghill you're
going to? Also, Mrs. Gadsby will be fat.
G. (_Limply._) This is rather more than a joke.
M. D'you think so? Isn't cutting the Service a joke? It generally takes
a man fifty years to arrive at it. You're quite right, though. It is
more than a joke. You've managed it in thirty-three.
G. Don't make me feel worse than I do. Will it satisfy you if I own
that I am a shirker, a skrim-shanker, and a coward?
M. It will _not_, because I'm the only man in the world who can talk
to you like this without being knocked down. You mustn't take all that
I've said to heart in this way. I only spoke--a lot of it at least--out
of pure selfishness, because, because--Oh, damn it all, old man,--I
don't know _what_ I shall do without you. Of course, you've got the
money and the place and all that--and there are two very good reasons
why you should take care of yourself.
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