"Well," he said, after a few moments, "it is a terrible thing for a man to learn what he really is. But if he doesn't learn it he's lost."
Cairns assented with a jerk of his head.
"But who's to hold up the mirror to a man?" he asked. "When his father and mother shove it under his nose he won't look; when clergy or laymen offer him a looking-glass he shuts his eyes and tries to kick them. That's the modern youngster—the product of this modern town with its modern modes of thought."
"The old order of things was the best," said Desboro. "Has anybody given us anything better than what they reasoned us into discarding—the old gentleness of manners, the quaint, stiff formalisms now out of date, the shyness and reticence of former days, the serenity, the faith which is now unfashionable, the old-time reverence?"
"I don't know," said Cairns, "what we've gained in the discard. I look now at the cards they offer us to take up, and there is nothing on them. And the game has forced us to throw away what we had." He caressed his chin thoughtfully. "The only way to do is to return to first principles, cut a fresh pack, never mind new rules and innovations, but play the game according to the decalogue. And nobody can call you down." He reddened, and added honestly: "That's not entirely my own, Jim. There are some similar lines in a new play which Miss Lessler and I were reading this morning."
"Reading? Where?"
"Oh, we walked through the Park together rather early—took it easy, you know. She read aloud as we walked."
"She is coming for the week-end," said Desboro.
"I believe so."
Desboro, lighting a cigarette, permitted his very expressionless glance to rest on his friend for the briefest fraction of a second.