The Essential G. B. Shaw: Celebrated Plays, Novels, Personal Letters, Essays & Articles. GEORGE BERNARD SHAW

me and my friends?”

      “I am not mocking you; honor bright! All that about science was only a joke — at least, it’s not what you call science. I’m a real simpleton in drawingroom affairs; though I’m clever enough in my own line.”

      “Then try to believe that I take no pleasure in making you confess yourself in the wrong, and that you cannot have a lower opinion of me than the contrary belief implies.”

      “That’s just where you’re mistaken,” said Cashel, obstinately. “I haven’t got a low opinion of you at all. There’s such a thing as being too clever.”

      “You may not know that it is a low opinion. Nevertheless, it is so.”

      “Well, have it your own way. I’m wrong again; and you’re right.”

      “So far from being gratified by that, I had rather that we were both in the right and agreed. Can you understand that?”

      “I can’t say I do. But I give in to it. What more need you care for?”

      “I had rather you understood. Let me try to explain. You think that I like to be cleverer than other people. You are mistaken. I should like them all to know whatever I know.”

      Cashel laughed cunningly, and shook his head. “Don’t you make any mistake about that,” he said. “You don’t want anybody to be quite as clever as yourself; it isn’t in human nature that you should. You’d like people to be just clever enough to show you off — to be worth beating. But you wouldn’t like them to be able to beat you. Just clever enough to know how much cleverer you are; that’s about the mark. Eh?”

      Lydia made no further effort to enlighten him. She looked at him thoughtfully, and said, slowly, “I begin to hold the clew to your idiosyncrasy. You have attached yourself to the modern doctrine of a struggle for existence, and look on life as a perpetual combat.”

      “A fight? Just so. What is life but a fight? The curs forfeit or get beaten; the rogues sell the fight and lose the confidence of their backers; the game ones and the clever ones win the stakes, and have to hand over the lion’s share of them to the loafers; and luck plays the devil with them all in turn. That’s not the way they describe life in books; but that’s what it is.”

      “Oddly put, but perhaps true. Still, is there any need of a struggle? Is not the world large enough for us all to live peacefully in?”

      “YOU may think so, because you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth. But if you hadn’t to fight for that silver spoon, some one else had; and no doubt he thought it hard that it should be taken away from him and given to you. I was a snob myself once, and thought the world was made for me to enjoy myself and order about the poor fellows whose bread I was eating. But I was left one day where I couldn’t grab any more of their bread, and had to make some for myself — ay, and some extra for loafers that had the power to make me pay for what they didn’t own. That took the conceit out of me fast enough. But what do you know about such things?”

      “More than you think, perhaps. These are dangerous ideas to take with you into English society.”

      “Hmf!” growled Cashel. “They’d be more dangerous if I could give every man that is robbed of half what he earns twelve lessons — in science.”

      “So you can. Publish your lessons. ‘Twelve lectures on political economy, by Cashel Byron.’ I will help you to publish them, if you wish.”

      “Bless your innocence!” said Cashel: “the sort of political economy I teach can’t be learned from a book.”

      “You have become an enigma again. But yours is not the creed of a simpleton. You are playing with me — revealing your wisdom from beneath a veil of infantile guilelessness. I have no more to say.”

      “May I be shot if I understand you! I never pretended to be guileless. Come: is it because I raised a laugh against your cousin that you’re so spiteful?”

      Lydia looked earnestly and doubtfully at him; and he instinctively put his head back, as if it were in danger. “You do not understand, then?” she said. “I will test the genuineness of your stupidity by an appeal to your obedience.”

      “Stupidity! Go on.”

      “But will you obey me, if I lay a command upon you?”

      “I will go through fire and water for you.”

      Lydia blushed faintly, and paused to wonder at the novel sensation before she resumed. “You had better not apologize to my cousin: partly because you would only make matters worse; chiefly because he does not deserve it. But you must make this speech to Mrs. Hoskyn when you are going: ‘I am very sorry I forgot myself’—”

      “Sounds like Shakespeare, doesn’t it?” observed Cashel.

      “Ah! the test has found you out; you are only acting after all. But that does not alter my opinion that you should apologize.”

      “All right. I don’t know what you mean by testing and acting; and I only hope you know yourself. But no matter; I’ll apologize; a man like me can afford to. I’ll apologize to your cousin, too, if you like.”

      “I do not like. But what has that to do with it? I suggest these things, as you must be aware, for your own sake and not for mine.”

      “As for my own, I don’t care twopence: I do it all for you. I don’t even ask whether there is anything between you and him.”

      “Would you like to know?” said Lydia, deliberately, after a pause of astonishment.

      “Do you mean to say you’ll tell me?” he exclaimed. “If you do, I’ll say you’re as good as gold.”

      “Certainly I will tell you. There is an old friendship and cousinship between us; but we are not engaged, nor at all likely to be. I tell you so because, if I avoided the question, you would draw the opposite and false conclusion.”

      “I am glad of it,” said Cashel, unexpectedly becoming very gloomy. “He isn’t man enough for you. But he’s your equal, damn him!”

      “He is my cousin, and, I believe, my sincere friend. Therefore please do not damn him.”

      “I know I shouldn’t have said that. But I am only damning my own luck.”

      “Which will not improve it in the least.”

      “I know that. You needn’t have said it. I wouldn’t have said a thing like that to you, stupid as I am.”

      “Evidently you suppose me to have meant more than I really did. However, that does not matter. You are still an enigma to me. Had we not better try to hear a little of Madame Szczymplica’s performance?”

      “I’m a pretty plain enigma, I should think,” said Cashel, mournfully. “I would rather have you than any other woman in the world; but you’re too rich and grand for me. If I can’t have the satisfaction of marrying you, I may as well have the satisfaction of saying I’d like to.”

      “Hardly a fair way of approaching the subject,” said Lydia, composedly, but with a play of color again in her cheeks. “Allow me to forbid it unconditionally. I must be plain with you, Mr. Cashel Byron. I do not know what you are or who you are; and I believe you have tried to mystify me on both points—”

      “And you never shall find out either the one or the other, if I can help it,” put in Cashel; “so that we’re in a preciously bad way of coming to a good understanding.”

      “True,” assented Lydia. “I do not make secrets; I do not keep them; and I do not respect them. Your humor clashes with my principle.”

      “You call it a humor!” said Cashel, angrily. “Perhaps you think I am a duke in disguise. If so, you may think better of it. If you had a secret, the discovery of which would cause you to be kicked out of decent society, you would keep it pretty tight. And that through no fault of your own, mind you; but through downright