He made a troubled little gesture with his hand.
“They say my work is good, that it is eminently clever—sometimes even that it's great; but that is not enough, and I try again. Try to be more like—not myself—but some one else; for it seems they don't want me on any terms. I wonder if there is such a thing as a man's being absolutely unavailable in the world—being of such an odd size and shape of both soul and mind that there is no niche he can fill. Do you know, I am beginning to think it of myself, that I don't fit—just don't fit anywhere.”
And he looked at me questioningly. I had never seen him so despondent before.
He must have understood my thought, for he continued:
“I am ashamed to burden you with my woes. If I were the only one concerned it wouldn't be so bad,—I could stand it.”
A wistful far-away look came into his eyes as he said softly:
“But there's my mother. It's for her I am working much more than for myself. Her life is so hard, with poverty and the contemptible pettiness of those about her.”
He turned from me to hide the tears that would gather against his will.
“And there she sits,” his voice sank to a whisper, “counting the days till I shall come and take her away. And what if I never can,—what if I end in failure! We wouldn't require much for perfect happiness, but small as the sum needed is, I can't make it. I shan't stay here much longer. I'll go home and settle down at something else.”
“You wouldn't give up your work!” I cried.