``That's true, what you say,'' he began, ``I haven't done much.
You are quite right. Only--'' he looked up at her curiously and
smiled--``only you should not have been the one to tell me of
it.''

Miss Langham had been so far carried away by her own point of
view that she had not considered Clay, and now that she saw what
mischief she had done, she gave a quick gasp of regret, and
leaned forward as though to add some explanation to what she had
said. But Clay stopped her. ``I mean by that,'' he said, ``that
the great part of the inspiration I have had to do what little I
have done came from you. You were a sort of promise of something
better to me. You were more of a type than an individual woman,
but your picture, the one I carry in my watch, meant all that
part of life that I have never known, the sweetness and the
nobleness and grace of civilization,--something I hoped I would
some day have time to enjoy. So you see,'' he added, with an
uncertain laugh, ``it's less pleasant to hear that I have failed
to make the most of myself from you than from almost any one
else.''

``But, Mr. Clay,'' protested the girl, anxiously, ``I think you
have done wonderfully well. I only said that I wanted you to do
more. You are so young and you have--''

Clay did not hear her. He was leaning forward looking moodily
out across the water, with his folded arms clasped across his
knees.

``I have not made the most of myself,'' he repeated; ``that is