Gangnet did remind Maskull of someone, but he could not say of whom. His dark hair curled down to his neck, his brow was wide, lofty, and noble, and there was an air of serious sweetness about the whole man that was strangely appealing to the feelings.
“Let Maskull judge,” he said with proud composure, “whether I have anything to be ashamed of.”
“There can be nothing but magnificent thoughts in that head,” muttered Maskull, staring hard at him.
“A capital valuation. Gangnet is the king of poets. But what happens when poets try to carry through practical enterprises?”
“What enterprises?” asked Maskull, in astonishment.
“What have you got on hand, Gangnet? Tell Maskull.”
“There are two forms of practical activity,” replied Gangnet calmly. “One may either build up, or destroy.”
“No, there’s a third species. One may steal—and not even know one is stealing. One may take the purse and leave the money.”
Maskull raised his eyebrows. “Where have you two met before?”
“I’m paying Gangnet a visit today, Maskull, but once upon a time Gangnet paid me a visit.”