"Because," continued the doctor authoritatively, "there are some men who care more to do some one thing, who love one object, more than they care for success, for fame, for pleasure. If they are defeated, if they never have the chance to do that one thing—perhaps the world is no poorer—there are plenty to take their places, but they are capable of misery, real misery, such as no common failure ever brings to the common man. They may be foolish; they may be idle and be drawn aside and think they are happier in doing what comes along, but that is never true. They are wretched. Such men can never love, except as an interlude. Do you understand me?"
The doctor paused at this sharp interrogation; Long's eyes had followed him wonderingly during his long monologue.
"So you thought——" he stammered.
"That you were made in that way," nodded the doctor; "an undomesticated animal."
Long sat brooding over this idea. The doctor went on in his low, swift tones.
"You have the hunger and the thirst for that work over there. You would play with a woman and then put her out of your heart into the street, or try to tame yourself. Which would be worse."
"And if I am not so sure that I am built like that? Suppose I am willing to make the sacrifice, if you call it that?"
The doctor's tone became neutral again.
"You refer to a possible interest in my daughter."
Long's face slowly flushed under the word "possible."