I have sometimes
fancied that more real philosophers than we are aware of are partial on
the sly to whiskey and water. But that is neither here nor there; for,
as I have already stated, I am not a real philosopher.
I have altogether too many faults to be one, and should constantly be
flying in the face of my own theories. Barring the aforesaid weakness
for whiskey and water, it is fair to assume that the average real
philosopher lives up to his own lights and by them; whereas I, at least
according to Josephine, am liable to be frightfully inconsistent. She
has never forgotten my profanity on the occasion when we discovered after
dinner that the soot had come down in the drawing-room and was over
everything in spite of the fact that the chimney had been swept three
weeks before. Now, if there is one thing which I abhor and am
perpetually inveighing against as vulgar and futile, it is unbridled
language. Josephine must have heard me say fifty times if she has heard
me one that the man who fouls his tongue with an oath is a senseless oaf.
And yet I am bound to admit that when I discovered what had happened I
swore deliberately and roundly like the veriest trooper. In order to
appreciate the situation exactly I should add that it has long been a
mooted point between Josephine and me whether chimneys require to be
swept at all.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25