On the shoreline of a lake, somewhere in a peaceful golden valley, laying drowsily among the dancing grasses of late summer on one very fine afternoon, were two extremely good-looking gentlemen. One, a very tall, very thin blonde fellow, was at that time called Amadeus Lovejoy. The other, a somewhat shorter, muscular, dark fellow with a melancholy look in his eye and a mischievous smile in the corner of his mouth was on that day (and I believe on every other day, too) dubbed Angus Merriweather– after his father, may he rest in peace. While these two young men were industriously wasting their time doing nothing, and thinking of even less, they happened to have this conversation which floated on the breeze, over the hills, down the lane and through my window to my eagerly awaiting ears.
   "Amadeus," said Angus. "You know what the problem with people is today?" (This was a rhetorical question, and Angus would have continued unchecked, but Amadeus interrupted).
   "They’re aggravatingly dull and irritatingly boring?" (Which meant, more or less, the same thing but had such wonderful rhythm and poetic appeal that Amadeus said it anyway.)
   "Well, that too," Angus said, waving his hand in a dismissing sort of way. "But what I was going to say, was this." Here he paused for a dramatic moment of anticipation. "People are ridiculously strict in their finances. They keep insisting that they have to have money to be rich! Now what a dismal view of life that is. If everyone viewed themselves as they really were there would be no room for imagination and exploration of the impossible. Everyone lives within their means these days. Nobody even supposes for a moment that they might be meant for something grander."
   Amadeus nibbled a blade of grass and looked as if he were thinking very deeply. The breeze gently pushed and pulled at his yellow tresses, and between that, the golden sun shining down upon his noble brow, the blade of grass and his comfortably expensive clothing he looked the very picture of natural perfection within and without.
   "I would say," he began at last, "that people take life far too seriously. There was never a serious person that in anyway shared the joy of life and health. Of course, no one–or very few at least–can help it if some unfortunate occurrence should fall, temporarily, on his head. But that doesn’t give license to grieve unnecessarily."
   "That’s precisely what I mean. Taking life at face value–and an ugly face it is, too–and never seriously examining the light between the shadows. I’ll admit that all the rich people I know have a good deal of money...or at least pretend to. Myself, however!" (his face brightened as the subject) "Now I have very little money–or maybe even none at all! I don’t know, I never look at my books. You see I’m much more a candidate for the privileged wealthy than anyone else you know. I never look at my bank figures which makes me a much more jovial person, far less wrinkled, not at all calculating and the least anxious person I know (aside from that dastardly handsome fellow that greets me in the mirror every morning)."
   "Yes, I think you’re a very pleasant type."
   "Thank you. I’ve always admired your character as well."
   They then sat there quietly for some moments, each in his own (or borrowed) thoughts. Had I been a painter, and not a writer, I think I would have painted them there, with that look of cynical optimism on their faces, enjoying the natural pleasures of mental comfort.
   Finally Angus spoke again, very slowly as if waking from sleep.
   "I think...that the richer a person is (whether pretended or not) whenever he falls off that notorious lofty height....if he is soundly anchored in the conviction of superiority in any field of life...he will always land on the plush reassurance that he is wealthy in his own arrogance (for there lies the spring on which all humiliations bounce)."