“I am a coward, as I have told you,” said the other dourly.
“No, you are not. But you can’t bring yourself down to the world of compromises, which is the world of action. You have lost the practical touch. You muddled your fight with Stocks because you couldn’t get out of touch with your own little world in practice, however you might manage it in theory. You can’t be single-hearted. Twenty impulses are always pulling different ways with you, and the result is that you become an unhappy, self-conscious waverer.”
Lewis was staring into the fire, and the older man leaned forward and put his hand very tenderly on his shoulder.
“I don’t want to speak about the thing which gives you most pain, old chap; but I think you have spoiled your chances in the same way in another matter—the most important matter a man can have to do with, though it ill becomes a cynical bachelor like myself to say it.”
“I know,” said Lewis dismally.
“You see it is the Nemesis of your race which has overtaken you. The rich, strong blood of you Haystouns must be given room or it sours into moodiness. It is either a spoon or a spoiled horn with you. You are capable of the big virtues, and just because of it you are extraordinarily apt to go to the devil. Not the ordinary devil, of course, but to a very effective substitute. You want to be braced and pulled together. A war might do it, if you were a soldier. A religious enthusiasm would do it, if that were possible for you. As it is, I have something else, which I came up to propose to you.”
Lewis faced round in an attitude of polite attention. But his eyes had no interest in them.
“You know Bardur and the country about there pretty well?”
Lewis nodded.
“Also I once talked to you about a man called Marka. Do you remember?”