There was a strange
look in his eyes. It was evident to George, watching him with close
interest, that here was a revelation of the man's soul; that
thoughts, locked away for years in the other's bosom were crying
for utterance.
"Damned silly nonsense! When I was a boy, I wanted to be
an engine-driver. When I was a young man, I was a Socialist
and hadn't any idea except to work for my living and make a
name for myself. I was going to the colonies. Canada. The
fruit farm was actually bought. Bought and paid for!" He
brooded a moment on that long-lost fruit farm. "My father was
a younger son. And then my uncle must go and break his neck
hunting, and the baby, poor little chap, got croup or something
. . . And there I was, saddled with the title, and all my plans
gone up in smoke . . . Silly nonsense! Silly nonsense!"
He bit the end of a cigar. "And you can't stand up against it," he
went on ruefully. "It saps you. It's like some damned drug. I
fought against it as long as I could, but it was no use. I'm as big
a snob as any of them now. I'm afraid to do what I want to do.
Always thinking of the family dignity. I haven't taken a free step
for twenty-five years.
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