"At the very worst I should be safe for five thousand a
year. What, in the name of common sense, does a man want with more?
I am always saying to myself, I'll do it; why don't I?
"Well, why not?" I echoed.
"That's what I want you to tell me," he returned. "You set up for
understanding human nature, it's a mystery to me. In my place, you
would do as I do; you know that. If somebody left you a hundred
thousand pounds to-morrow, you would start a newspaper, or build a
theatre--some damn-fool trick for getting rid of the money and
giving yourself seventeen hours' anxiety a day; you know you would."
I hung my head in shame. I felt the justice of the accusation. It
has always been my dream to run a newspaper and own a theatre.
"If we worked only for what we could spend," he went on, "the City
might put up its shutters to-morrow morning. What I want to get at
the bottom of is this instinct that drives us to work apparently for
work's own sake. What is this strange thing that gets upon our back
and spurs us?"
A servant entered at that moment with a cablegram from the manager
of one of his Austrian mines, and he had to leave me for his study.
But, walking home, I fell to pondering on his words.
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