“I had supposed,” suggested Snowdon deliberately, “that you wanted two things above all else. First to 66 establish your innocence to the world, and secondly, even if you failed in that, to make your name so substantially respected that you could bear—the other.”
“Until recently I had no other thought.” The young man rose and stood with his fine body erect and as full of disciplined strength as that of a Praxiteles athlete. Then he took several restless turns across the floor and halted tensely before his benefactor.
“I have let no grass grow under my feet. You know how I have run down every conceivable clue and how I stand as uncleared as the day the verdict was brought at Manila. I’ve begun to despair of vindication.... I am not by nature a beast of prey.... I prefer fair play and the courtesies of sportsmanlike conflict.”
He paused, then went forward again in a hardening voice: “But in this land of ours there are two aristocracies and only two—and I want to be an aristocrat of sorts.”
“I didn’t realize we had even so much variety as that,” observed Snowdon and the younger man continued.
“The real aristocracy is that of gentle blood and ideals. Our little army is its true nucleus and there a man doesn’t have to be rich. I was born to that and reared to it as to a deep religion—but I’ve been cast out, unfrocked, cashiered. I can’t go back. One class is still open to me; the brazen, arrogant circles of wealth into which a double-fisted achiever can bruise his way. I don’t love them. I don’t revere them, but they offer power and I mean to take my place on their tawdry eminence. It’s all that’s left.”
“I’m not preaching humility,” persisted Snowdon 67 quietly. “I started you along the paths of financial combat and I see no fault in your continuing, but may I be candid to the point of bluntness?”
He paused for permission and Spurrier prompted: “Yes, please go on.”
“Then,” finished Snowdon, “since you’ve been with me I’ve watched you grow—and you have grown. But I’ve also seen a fine chivalric sense gradually blunting; a generous predisposition hardening out of flexibility into something more implacable, less gracious. It’s a pity—and Martin Harrison won’t soften you.”
For a while Spurrier stood meditatively silent, then he smiled and once more nodded his head.