"Mark," he said, dropping the end of his cigarette, "you are desperately keen on this?"
He meant his words to be taken as affirmation or interrogation, according to Mark's mood. He never invited confidences withheld.
"Yes," Mark replied.
"Why?"
When the eyes of the two men countered, a third person would have remarked in them an extraordinary difference in colour and quality. Greatorex had the onyx eyes of a gipsy, bright yet obscured by mysterious flickering tints, the eyes which conceal and so seldom reveal the thoughts behind them. Mark's blue eyes had that candid expression which pertains to children's eyes.
"Why?" Mark repeated the pregnant word. "I think you know why. I have failed in everything I have undertaken. I have pursued success as if it were a will-o'-the-wisp——"
"Which it is——"
"And if once I could hold it in my hand, if I could say to myself, I have it—it is mine—why then——"
He paused.
"You care so much for fame—you?"