For Maisie's sake, and to soothe the self-respect that it seemed to him he lost each Sunday, he would not consciously turn out bad stuff, but, since Maisie did not care even for his best, it were better not to do anything at all save wait and mark time between Sunday and Sunday. Torpenhow was disgusted as the weeks went by fruitless, and then attacked him one Sunday evening when Dick felt utterly exhausted after three hours' biting self-restraint in Maisie's presence. There was Language, and Torpenhow withdrew to consult the Nilghai, who had come it to talk continental politics.
“Bone-idle, is he? Careless, and touched in the temper?” said the Nilghai. “It isn't worth worrying over. Dick is probably playing the fool with a woman.”
“Isn't that bad enough?”
“No. She may throw him out of gear and knock his work to pieces for a while. She may even turn up here some day and make a scene on the staircase: one never knows. But until Dick speaks of his own accord you had better not touch him. He is no easy-tempered man to handle.”
“No; I wish he were. He is such an aggressive, cocksure, you-be-damned fellow.”
“He'll get that knocked out of him in time. He must learn that he can't storm up and down the world with a box of moist tubes and a slick brush. You're fond of him?”
“I'd take any punishment that's in store for him if I could; but the worst of it is, no man can save his brother.”
“No, and the worser of it is, there is no discharge in this war. Dick must learn his lesson like the rest of us. Talking of war, there'll be trouble in the Balkans in the spring.”
“That trouble is long coming. I wonder if we could drag Dick out there when it comes off?”
Dick entered the room soon afterwards, and the question was put to him.