I said fool, not ass. He's clever, but ridiculously vain. I
don't dislike him. I don't care anything about him--or about
anybody else in the world. No man does who amounts to
anything. With a career it's as Jesus said--leave father and
mother, husband and wife--land, ox everything--and follow it."
"What for?" said Susan.
"To save your soul! To be a somebody; to be strong. To be
able to give to anybody and everybody--whatever they need. To
be happy."
"Are you happy?"
"No," he admitted. "But I'm growing in that direction. . . .
Don't waste yourself on Stevens--I beg pardon, Spenser.
You're bigger than that. He's a small man with large
dreams--a hopeless misfit. Small dreams for small men; large
dreams for--" he laughed--"you and me--our sort."
Susan echoed his laugh, but faint-heartedly. "I've watched
your name in the papers," she said, sincerely unconscious of
flattery. "I've seen you grow more and more famous. But--if
there had been anything in me, would I have gone down and down?"
"How old are you?"
"About twenty-one."
"Only twenty-one and that look in your face! Magnificent! I
don't believe I'm to be disappointed this time. You ask why
you've gone down! You haven't. You've gone _through_."
"Down," she insisted, sadly.
"Nonsense! The soot'll rub off the steel."
She lifted her head eagerly. Her own secret thought put into words.
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