obvious enough. You can guess sufficient reasons to account for it."

"Let's hear them anyhow," said Francis.

Michael clouded again.

"Surely they are obvious," he said. "No one knows better than me, unless
it is you, that I'm not like the rest of you. My mind isn't the build of
a guardsman's mind, any more than my unfortunate body is. Half our work,
as you know quite well, consists in being pleasant and in liking it.
Well, I'm not pleasant. I'm not breezy and cordial. I can't do it.
I make a task of what is a pastime to all of you, and I only shuffle
through my task. I'm not popular, I'm not liked. It's no earthly use
saying I am. I don't like the life; it seems to me senseless. And those
who live it don't like me. They think me heavy--just heavy. And I have
enough sensitiveness to know it."

Michael need not have stated his reasons, for his cousin could certainly
have guessed them; he could, too, have confessed to the truth of them.
Michael had not the light hand, which is so necessary when young men
work together in a companionship of which the cordiality is an essential
part of the work; neither had he in the social side of life that
particular and inimitable sort of easy self-confidence which, as he had
said just now, enables its owner to float. Except in years he was not
young; he could not manage to be "clubable"; he was serious and awkward
at a supper party; he was altogether without the effervescence which is
necessary in order to avoid flatness. He did his work also in the same
conscientious but leaden way; officers and men alike felt it. All this
Francis knew perfectly well; but instead of acknowledging it, he tried
quite fruitlessly to smooth it over.