"Ah! There is a but, then," Borrowdean interrupted.

"There is a but," Mannering assented. "You may find it hard to
understand, but here is the truth. I have lost all taste for public life.
The whole thing is rotten, Borrowdean, rotten from beginning to end. I
have had enough of it to last me all my days. Party policy must come
before principle. A man's individuality, his whole character, is assailed
and suborned on every side. There is but one life, one measure of days,
that you or I know anything of. It doesn't last very long. The months and
years have a knack of slipping away emptily enough unless we are always
standing to attention. Therefore I think that it becomes our duty to
consider very carefully, almost religiously, how best to use them. Come
here for a moment, Borrowdean. I want to show you something."

The two men stood side by side upon the grassy bank, Mannering
broad-shouldered and vigorous, his clean, hard-cut features tanned with
wind and sun, his eyes bright and vigorous with health; Leslie
Borrowdean, once his greatest friend, a man of almost similar physique,
but with the bent frame and listless pallor of a dweller in the crowded
places of life. Without enthusiasm his tired eyes followed the sweep of
Mannering's arm.

"You see those yellow sandhills beyond the marshes there? Behind them is
the sea. Do you catch that breath of wind? Take off your hat, man, and
get it into your lungs. It comes from the North Sea, salt and fresh and
sweet. I think that it is the purest thing on earth. You can walk here
for miles and miles in the open, and the wind is like God's own music.
Borrowdean, I am going to say things to you which one says but once or
twice in his life. I came to this country a soured man, cynical, a
pessimist, a materialist by training and environment. To-day I speak of a