MR. CHAFFERY AT HOME
tary, the prodigal younger son. After all, at worst, I am a sort of latter-day Robin Hood; I take from the rich according to their incomes. I don't give to the poor certainly, I don't get enough. But—there are other good works. Many a poor weakling have I comforted with Lies, great thumping, silly Lies, about the grave! Compare me with one of those rascals who disseminate phossy jaw and lead poisons, compare me with a millionaire who runs a music hall with an eye to feminine talent, or an underwriter, or the common stockbroker. Or any sort of lawyer. . . .
"There are bishops," said Chaffery, "who believe in Darwin and doubt Moses. Now I hold myself better than they—analogous perhaps but better—for I do at least invent something of the tricks I play—I do do that."
"That's all very well," began Lewisham.
"I might forgive them their dishonesty," said Chaffery, "but the stupidity of it, the mental self-abnegation—Lord! If a solicitor doesn't swindle in the proper shabby-magnificent way, they chuck him for unprofessional conduct." He paused. He became meditative, and smiled faintly.
"Now some of my dodges," he said with a sudden change of voice, turning towards Lewisham, his eyes smiling over his glasses and an emphatic hand patting the tablecloth; "some of my dodges are damned ingenious, you know—damned ingenious—and well worth double the money they bring me—double."
He turned towards the fire again, pulling at his
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