"I say," he rejoined, "how old do you think I am, anyway? Only
forty-one, by the bones of Byron! Henry VIII was only forty-one
when he married Anne Boleyn. There are many consolations in history
for people over forty! Remember that when you get there.
"Shakespeare wrote 'King Lear' at forty-one," he added, more
humorously; and then burst out laughing. "I'd like to edit a series
of 'Chloroform Classics,' to include only books written after forty.
Who was that doctor man who recommended anaesthetics for us at that
age? Now isn't that just like a medico? Nurse us through the
diseases of childhood, and as soon as we settle down into permanent
good health and worldly wisdom, and freedom from doctors' fees, why
he loses interest in us! Jove! I must note that down and bring it
into my book."
He pulled out a memorandum book and jotted down "Chloroform
Classics" in a small, neat hand.
"Well," I said (I felt a little contrite, as I was sincerely
sorry to have offended him), "I've passed forty myself in some
measurements, so youth no longer has any terrors for me.
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