In Travers' pitcher it had become kaleidoscopic, only saved from dire
confusion by one steady, consistent color, which tinged and killed by
its brilliancy the hundred other rainbow fragments. Such was life for
him--such at least it had become--a gay chaos in which the one
important thing was himself; a game, partly instructive, partly
amusing, with no rules save that the player is expected to win. Of
course, as in all matters, a certain order, or appearance of order,
had to be maintained; but Travers believed, and thought every one else
believed, that it was a mere "appearance," and that, as in the
childish game of "cheating," the card put on the table has not always
the face it is affirmed by the player to possess. Doubtless it is
sometimes an honest card--Travers himself played honest cards very
often--but that is part of the game, part of the cheating, one might
be tempted to say.
A suspicious opponent becomes shy of accusing a player who has been
able to refute a previous accusation, and those people whose doubts
had been aroused by one of Travers' transactions, and had been rash
enough to conclude that all Travers' works were "shady," had been
badly burned for their presumption. After one indignant vindication of
his methods Travers had been allowed to go his way, smiling,
unperturbed, with a friendly twinkle in his eye for his detractors
which acknowledged a perfect understanding.
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