"It's a pretty good thing, work, Steve," said Kirk. "If it does nothing
else, it keeps you from thinking."
He knew it was feeble of him, but he was powerfully impelled to relieve
himself by confiding his wretchedness to Steve. He need not say much,
he told himself plausibly--only just enough to lighten the burden a
little.
He would not be disloyal to Ruth--he had not sunk to that--but, after
all Steve was Steve. It was not like blurting out his troubles to a
stranger. It would harm nobody, and do him a great deal of good, if he
talked to Steve.
He relit his pipe, which had gone out during a tense spell of work on
the suspenders.
"Well, Steve," he said, "what do you think of life? How is this best of
all possible worlds treating you?"
Steve deposed that life was pretty punk.
"You're a great describer, Steve. You've hit it first time. Punk is the
word. It's funny, if you look at it properly. Take my own case. The
superficial observer, who is apt to be a bonehead, would say that I
ought to be singing psalms of joy. I am married to the woman I wanted
to marry. I have a son who, not to be fulsome, is a perfectly good sort
of son. I have no financial troubles. I eat well. I have ceased to
tremble when I see a job of work. In fact, I have advanced in my art to
such an extent that shrewd business men like Middleton put the
pictorial side of their Undeniable Suspenders in my hands and go off to
play golf with their minds easy, having perfect confidence in my skill
and judgment.
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