“No, thanks,” said George dully—“I’m going home.”
§ 19
He had failed again. As he walked through the thick yellow light of the Hunter’s Moon to Leasan, he saw himself as a curiously feeble and ineffective thing. It was not only that he had failed to persuade his brother by convincing arguments, or that he had failed once more to inspire his father with any sort of respect for his office, but he had somehow failed in regard to his own soul, and all his other failures were merely branches of that most bitter root.
He had been unable to convince Gervase because he was not convinced himself—he had been unable to inspire his father because he was not inspired himself. All his life he had stood for moderation, toleration, broad-mindedness ... and here he was, so moderate that no one would believe him, so tolerant that no one would respect him, so broad-minded that the water of life lay as it were stagnant in a wide and shallow pond instead of rushing powerfully between the rocky, narrow banks of a single heart....
He found Rose waiting for him in the hall.
“How late you are! I’ve shut up. They must have kept you an awful time.”
“I’ve been rather slow coming home.”
“Tired?”
“I am a bit.”
“How did you get on? I expect Gervase was cheeky.”