Seven and Twenty Eight were perfectly consistent and unchanged; that exactly what they were then, they had always been; that the hypocritical knaves were just the subjects to make that sort of profession in such a place; that they knew its market-value at least as well as we did, in the immediate service it would do them when they were expatriated; in a word, that it was a rotten, hollow, painfully suggestive piece of business altogether. We left them to their system and themselves, and went home wondering.
“Perhaps it’s a good thing, Traddles,” said I, “to have an unsound hobby ridden hard; for it’s the sooner ridden to death.”
“I hope so,” replied Traddles.