Your name is Mr. Paul Walmsley. You are
one of a class of men that practically doesn't exist in America. You have
no particular occupation that I know of, save that you have a small estate
in the country, which no doubt takes up some of your time. You have rooms
in London, which you occupy occasionally. You probably write a little--I
have noticed that you are fond of watching people."
"You really seem to know a good deal about me," I confessed, a little
taken aback.
"I am not far from the mark, am I?"
"You are not," I admitted.
"As regards your lack of occupation," Mr. Parker went on, "I am not the
man to blame you for it. There are very few things in life a man can
settle down to nowadays. To a person of imagination the ordinary routine
of the professions and the ordinary curriculum of business life is a
species of slavery. We live in overcivilized times. There seems to be very
little room anywhere for a man to gratify his natural instincts for change
and adventure."
I murmured my acquiescence with his sentiments and my companion paused for
a few minutes, his whole attention devoted to his dinner.
"Might one inquire," I asked, after a brief pause, "as to your own
profession? You are an American, are you not?"
"I am most certainly an American," Mr.
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