"He is not!" burst in Weir, indignantly. "A man who can do nothing but
chaff and joke and talk witty nonsense!"

"If you knew him better you would know that under all that persiflage
there is much depth of feeling and passion. I do not claim any unusual
amount of intellectuality for him, but he has a wonderful supply of
hard common-sense, and remarkably quick perceptions. And I have great
respect for his judgment."

"That may be," said Weir, indifferently; "I care nothing about him."
She rose and stood in front of him and leaned her elbows on his
shoulders. "You may underrate yourself, if you like," she went on,
"but I know that you are capable of accomplishing anything you wish,
and of distinguishing yourself. I recall the conversations I have had
with you in your serious moments, if you do not, and I expect you to
be a great man yet."

Dartmouth flung his cigar impatiently into the fire. "My dear girl,
my grandmother preached that same thing to me from the day I was old
enough to reason, to the day she died. But I tell you, Weir, I have
not got it in me. I have the ambition and the desire--yes; but no
marked ability of any sort. Some day, when we are ready to settle
down, I will write, and publish what I write. Men will grant me a
certain standing as a thinker, I believe, and perhaps they will also
give me credit for a certain nice use of words; I have made a study of
literary style all my life. But that is the most I shall ever attain.
I am not a man of any genius or originality, and you may as well make
up your mind to the inevitable at once."