"Do I gather that you yourself recognize obligations of the order you allude to?" asked Nick.
"Do you 'gather'?" Nash stared. "Why, aren't they the very flame of my faith, the burden of my song?"
"My dear fellow, duty is doing, and I inferred that you think rather poorly of doing—that it spoils one's style."
"Doing wrong, assuredly."
"But what do you call right? What's your canon of certainty there?"
"The conscience that's in us—that charming, conversible, infinite thing, the intensest thing we know. But you must treat the oracle civilly if you wish to make it speak. You mustn't stride into the temple in muddy jack-boots, with your hat on your head, as the Puritan troopers tramped into the dear old abbeys. One must do one's best to find out the right, and your criminality appears to be that you have not taken common trouble."
"I hadn't you to ask," smiled Nick. "But duty strikes me as doing something. If you are too afraid it may be the wrong thing, you may let everything go."
"Being is doing, and if doing is duty, being is duty. Do you follow?"
"At a great distance."
"To be what one may be, really and efficaciously," Nash went on, "to feel it and understand it, to accept it, adopt it, embrace it—that's conduct, that's life."
"And suppose one's a brute or an ass, where's the efficacy?"
"In one's very want of intelligence. In such cases one is
