He turned his head in surprise; then went on painting:
"Your philosophy is the philosophy of submission."
"Do you call a struggle of years, submission?"
"But it was giving up after all—acquiescence, despondency, a laissez faire policy."
"One may tire of fighting."
"One may. Another may not."
"I think you have never had to fight very hard."
He turned his head abruptly; after a moment's silent survey of her, he resumed his painting with a sharp, impersonal glance before every swift and decisive brush stroke:
"No; I have never had to fight, Miss West…. It was keen of you to recognise it. I have never had to fight at all. Things come easily to me—things have a habit of coming my way…. I suppose I'm not exactly the man to lecture anybody on the art of fighting fortune. She's always been decent to me…. Sometimes I'm afraid—I have an instinct that she's too friendly…. And it troubles me. Do you understand what I mean?"
"Yes."