Eliot shook his head. "Not so wonderful as he was. Not half so wonderful
as he ought to be. He'll never be good enough for a professional. He
knows he won't."

"What's happened?"

"Nothing. That's just it. Nothing ever will happen. He's stuck. It's the
same with his singing. He'll never be any good if he can't go away and
study somewhere. If it isn't Berlin or Leipzig it ought to be London.
But father can't live there and the mater won't go anywhere without him.
So poor Col-Col's got to stick here doing nothing, with the same rotten
old masters telling him things he knew years ago.... It'll be worse next
term when he goes to Cheltenham. He won't be able to practice, and
nobody'll care a damn.... Not that that would matter if he cared
himself."

Colin was playing the slow movement now, the grave, pure passion,
pressed out from the solemn bass, throbbed, tense with restraint.

"Oh Eliot, he _does_ care."

"In a way. Not enough to keep on at it. You've got to slog like blazes,
if you want to get on."

"Jerrold won't, ever, then."

"Oh yes he will. _He'll_ get on all right, because he _doesn't_ care;
because work comes so jolly easy to him. He hasn't got to break his
heart over it.... The trouble with Colin is that he cares, awfully, for