own intrepidly
frank confession, my lord, it is become a sarcasm: If Simon Lathers—”“Keep that exasperating name to yourself! For ten years it has pestered
my eye—and tortured my ear; till at last my very footfalls time
themselves to the brain-racking rhythm of _Simon Lathers!—Simon
Lathers! —Simon Lathers!_ And now, to make its presence in my soul
eternal, immortal, imperishable, you have resolved to—to—what is it you
have resolved to do?”“To go to Simon Lathers, in America, and change places with him.”“What? Deliver the reversion of the earldom into his hands?”“That is my purpose.”“Make this tremendous surrender without even trying the fantastic case
in the Lords?”“Ye—s—” with hesitation and some embarrassment.“By all that is amazing, I believe you are insane, my son. See here
—have you been training with that ass again—that radical, if you prefer
the term, though the words are synonymous—Lord Tanzy, of Tollmache?”The son did not reply, and the old lord continued:“Yes, you confess. That puppy, that shame to his birth and caste, who
holds all hereditary lordships and privilege to be usurpation, all
nobility a tinsel sham, all aristocratic institutions a fraud, all
inequalities in rank a legalized crime and an infamy, and no bread
honest bread that a man doesn’t earn by his own work—_work_, pah!”—and
the old patrician brushed imaginary labor-dirt from his white hands.
“You have come to hold just those opinions yourself, I suppose,”—he
added with a sneer.A faint flush in the younger man’s cheek told that the shot had hit and hurt; but he answered with dignity: “I have. I say it without shame—I feel none. And now my reason for resolving to renounce my heirship without resistance is explained. I wish to retire from what to me is a false existence, a false position, and begin my life over again—begin it right—begin it on the level of mere manhood, unassisted by factitious aids, and succeed or fail by pure merit or the want of it. I will go to America, where all men are equal and all have an equal chance; I will live or die, sink or swim, win or lose as just a man—that alone, and not a single helping gaud or fiction back of it.”

“Hear, hear!” The two men looked each other steadily in the eye a moment or two, then the elder one added, musingly, “Ab-so-lutely cra-zy—ab-solutely!” After another silence, he said, as one who, long troubled by clouds, detects a ray of sunshine, “Well, there will be one satisfaction—Simon Lathers will come here to enter into his own, and I will drown him in the horsepond. The poor devil—always so humble in his letters, so pitiful, so deferential; so steeped in reverence for our great line and lofty-station; so anxious to placate us, so prayerful for recognition as a relative, a 

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