At tea the talk fell on London amusements and bachelor-life
in chambers.
"As for Christie, prudent old fogy that he is, what can he know of our
miseries?" said Harry with assumed ruefulness "He has a mansion in
Cheyne Walk and a balcony looking over the river, and a vigilant
housekeeper who allows no latch-key and turns off the gas at eleven. She
gives him perfect little dinners, and makes him too comfortable by half:
we poor apprentices to law lodge and fare very rudely."
"He has the air of being well done to, which is more than could be said
for you when first you arrived at home, Harry," remarked his mother with
what struck Bessie as a long and wistful gaze.
"Too much smell of the midnight oil is poison to country lungs--mind
what I tell you," said the doctor, emphasizing his words with a grave
nod at the young man.
"He ought to be content with less of his theatres and his operas and
supper-parties if he will read and write so furiously. A young fellow
can't combine the lives of a man of study and a man of leisure without
stealing too many hours from his natural rest. But I talk in vain--talk
you, Mr. Carnegie," said Christie with earnestness.
"A man must work, and work hard, now-a-days, if he means to do or be
anything," said Harry defiantly.
"It is the pace that kills," said the doctor. "The mischief is, that you
ardent young fellows never know when to stop. And in public life, my
lad, there is many a one comes to acknowledge that he has made more
haste than good speed.
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