LOVE AND MR. LEWISHAM
was the writing of another man. "Pamphlets in the Liberal Interest," he read, and smiled.
Presently a train of thought carried him off. His attitude relaxed a little, the Schema became for a time a mere symbol, a point of departure, and he stared out of the window at the darkling night. For a long time he sat pursuing thoughts that were half emotions, emotions that took upon themselves the shape and substance of ideas. The deepening current stirred at last among the roots of speech.
"Yes, it was vanity," he said. "A boy's vanity. For me—anyhow. I'm too two-sided. . . Two-sided?. . . Commonplace!
"Dreams like mine—abilities like mine. Yes—any man! And yet. . . The things I meant to do!"
His thoughts went to his Socialism, to his red-hot ambition of world mending. He marvelled at the vistas he had discovered since those days.
"Not for us— Not for us.
"We must perish in the wilderness— Some day. Somewhen. But not for us. . . .
"Come to think, it is all the Child. The future is the Child. The Future. What are we—any of us—but servants or traitors to that?. . .
.......
"Natural Selection—it follows. . . this way is happiness. . . must be. There can be no other."
He sighed. "To last a lifetime, that is.
"And yet—it is almost as if Life had played me a trick—promised so much—given so little!. . .
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