“Precisely,” she was content with saying. And as he pondered, there came a pause.
Clarice had something to say upon the subject of failure. Quincy had broached it.
“Think of all those young fellows in our office,” he exclaimed, “and as many more in any other office. How few of them could ever, by reason of actual physical conditions rise from the menial places they now hold! After all, each office has only a few heads. And twenty years from now there won’t be enough new offices to give high places to all these men.”
“No,” said Clarice. “But don’t you think very probably, that only those who really fit will get ahead? I don’t think it is brains or hard work or even luck that makes men succeed in New York. It’s fitting-in.”
“Well, can’t that be learned?”
“I know something about dogs,” said Clarice. “That’s what I’m really talking about, only I’m substituting offices for kennels. Well, blue ribbons aren’t earned, you know. The quality that wins them is there from the beginning. Your other puppies get the same food and the same care. But they don’t earn the ribbon even though they are twice as clever and as strong as the dog that does. Isn’t there an artificial standard for getting ahead in an artificial city? Well—diligence and mind are natural things, the result of natural energies. And what have natural energies to do with artificial standards? I tell you, you must fit in from the beginning. If you don’t, you’ll be like the vast majority of dogs in a kennel—an underdog.”
Quincy felt embarassed. He avoided Clarice’s eyes. But she smiled into him.
“Why did you come and join the kennel, my faun friend?”
“Why did you?” he flashed back at her.
“I am happy here.”