It's
even easier to create a counter-philosophy of condonance and
individualism, and I'm alternately an ethical egoist, a Fabian
socialist and a cynic. Moreover, I'm a creature of whims and
inconsistencies and there are black nights in my temperament when John
Barleycorn lightens the gloom; and there are other nights when he
treacherously deepens it--but I'm peculiarly balanced and subject to
irresistible fits of moral atrophy. All of which has nothing at all to
do with the soundness of my impersonal philosophy. Wherefore," with a
flash of his easy impudence, "when I preach, I mean it--for the other
fellow."
Wherry glanced at the handsome face of his erratic friend with frank
allegiance in his eyes.
Carl flung his cigar into the fire, poured himself some whiskey and
pushed the decanter across the table.
"Have a drink," he said whimsically.
Dick obeyed. It was an inconsistent supplement to the sermon but
characteristic.
"Carl," he said, flushing under the ironical battery of the other's
eyes, "I don't think I understand you--"
Carl laughed.
"Nobody does," he said. "I don't myself."
CHAPTER III
A WHIM
The fire in the marble fireplace died down, leaping in fitful shadow
over the iron-bound doors riveted in nail-heads.
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