“I’m a derelict, Nellie,” he said painfully.
“Shame! Phil,” she whispered. “A derelict is a ship without a soul. You a derelict! Then society is made up of derelicts, discards from the game of opportunity. Some of us are rich. We think we can afford to be idle. Ambition doesn’t matter to such men as Dick, or Larry Kane, or Egerton Savage. Their lines were drawn in easy places, their lives were ready-made from the hour that they were born. But you! There’s no excuse for you. You are not rich. As the world considers such things, you’re poor and so you’re born for better things! You’ve got the Gallatin intellect, the Gallatin solidity, the Gallatin cleverness——”
“And the Gallatin insufficiency,” he finished for her.
“A fig for your vices,” she said contemptuously. “It’s the little men of this world that never have any vices. No big man ever was without them. Whatever dims the luster of the spirit, the white fire of intellect burns steadily on, unless—” she paused and glanced at him, quickly, lowering her voice—“unless the luster of the spirit is dimmed too long, Phil.”
He clasped his long fingers around one of his knees and looked thoughtfully at the rug.
“I understand,” he said quietly.
“You don’t mind my speaking to you so, do you, Phil, dear?”
He closed his eyes, and then opening them as though with an effort, looked at her squarely.
“No, Nellie.”