"Spenser—Roderick Spenser."
Brent looked vague.
"He used to be on the Herald. He writes plays."
"Oh—yes. I remember. He's a weak fool."
Susan abruptly straightened, an ominous look in eyes and brow.
Brent made an impatient gesture. "Beg pardon. Why be sensitive about him? Obviously because you know I'm right. 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."