"We speak of great things," Borrowdean continued, "and the catching of a
train is a trifle. My wardrobe and house are at your service. Don't hurry
me!"

Mannering smiled.

"Go on!" he said.

"The men who count in this world," Borrowdean declared, calmly lighting
a cigarette, "are either thinkers of great thoughts or doers of great
deeds. To the former belong the poets and the sentimentalists; to the
latter the statesmen and the soldiers."

"What have I done," Mannering murmured, "that I should be sent back to
kindergarten? Platitudes such as this bore me. Let me catch my train."

"In a moment. To all my arguments and appeals, to all my entreaties to
you to realize yourself, to do your duty to us, to history and to
posterity, you have replied in one manner only. You have spoken from the
mushroom pedestal of the sentimentalist. Not a single word that has
fallen from your lips has rung true. You have spoken as though your eyes
were blind all the time to the letters of fire which truth has spelled
out before you. Any further argument with you is useless, because you are
not honest. You conceal your true position, and you adopt a false
defence. Therefore, I relinquish my task. You can go and grow your roses,
and think your poetry, and call it life if you will. But before you go I
should like you to know that I, at least, am not deceived. I do not
believe in you, Mannering. I ask you a question, and I challenge you to
answer it. What is your true reason for making a scrap-heap of your
career?"