"Be plucky," he said. "Work's the only thing. It is because we've both been idle here that we're worried. Don't think any more of Robin. He isn't good enough for you yet; he'll learn, like the rest of us; but he'll have to go through something first. You'll find a better man."
"Poor Robin," she said. "Be kind to him!"
He took her hand for a moment, smiled, and was gone. She watched him from the window.
He looked back at her and smiled again. Then he passed the corner of the street.
"So that's the end!" She turned back from the window. "Now for a beginning!"
CHAPTER XI
Garrett Trojan had considered the matter for two days and had come to no conclusion. His manner of considering anything was peculiar. He loved procrastination and coloured future events with such beautiful radiancy that, when they actually came, the shock of finding them only drab was so terrible that he avoided them altogether. He was, however, saved from any lasting pain and disappointment because he had been given, from early childhood, that splendid gift of discovering himself to be the continual hero of a continual play. It was not only that he could make no move in life at all without being its hero—that, of course, was pleasant enough; but that it was always a fresh discovery was truly the amazing thing. He was able to wake up, as it were, and discover afresh, every day of his life, what a hero he was; this was never monotonous, never wearisome. He played the game anew from day to day—and the best part of the game was not knowing that it was a game at all.
It must be admitted that he only maintained the illusion by keeping somewhat apart from his fellow-men—too frequent contact must have destroyed his dreams. But his aloofness was termed preserving his individuality, and in the well-curtained library, in carpet-slippers and a smoking-jacket, he built his own monument with infinite care before an imaginary crowd in an imaginary city of dreams.
There were times, of course, when he was a little uneasy. He had heard men titter at the Club: Clare had, occasionally, spoken plain words as to his true position in the House, and he had even, at times, doubts as to the permanent value of the book on which he was engaged. During these awful moments he gazed through the rent curtain into a valley of dead men's bones ruled by a dreary god who had no knowledge of Garrett Trojan and cared very little for the fortunes of the Trojan House.