But the adviser, disregarding the question, shrugged his shoulders—basilisk in state once more.
“Are you really ingenuous,” he asked, “or are you kidding me? One would think that a young man of your—education—then, would have prepared himself to meet inevitable economic problems.”
“No.” Martin shook his head. “I’m not ingenuous, either. I’m conscious. I’m too conscious; it makes me brittle. Nor am I kidding you. I told you the truth. It is curious that I didn’t adjust myself. I tried to think about it occasionally but it didn’t do any good. Other things seemed more important.”
Roberts was listening intently.
“What other things?” he asked.
“Oh—pretending. Sometimes other things; but mostly just pretending.”
“Pretending what?”
“Pretending that I was everything except what I am—that things were different from what they are. I thought that life would move on and somehow carry me with it. I have no way to substantiate this; but all my life I’ve known that the finish was illusive—that it was best for me to float with the current until an eddy whirled me into my right course.”
“Have you struck the eddy?”