He remembered what he had talked about, and he smiled grimly
over the recollection--space and leisure; the defective intelligence
that trapped men into cluttering their lives with useless junk; so many
things to have and to do that they couldn't turn around without breaking
something. Had he been a fool then, or was he a fool now? Both,
perhaps. But how old Frederica must have grinned over the naivete of
him. Which of the two of him in her candid opinion would be the better
man?
He believed he could answer that question. Oh, he was succeeding all
right--increasing his practise, making money, getting cautious--prudent;
he didn't bolt the track any more. And the quality of his work was good,
he couldn't quarrel with that. Only, the old big free dreams that had
glorified it, were gone. He was in harness, drawing a cart; following a
bundle of hay.
He sprang impatiently to his feet, thrust back his chair so violently as
he did so that it tipped over with a crash. The one really footling,
futile, fool thing to do, was what he was doing now--lamenting his old
way of life and making no effort to recapture it! Let him either accept
the situation, make up his mind to it and stop complaining, or else
offer it some effective resistance--sweep the flummery out of his
life--clear decks for action.
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