fter all, what was it, that career from which we hoped so much? I
stood waiting my cue, ready to act my part in the farce or tragedy,
whichever it turned out to be."

"I think it was more like a circus," said Robin.

"Very like a circus," he admitted with grim appreciation. "A circus in
which no one knew whether he was to be a ringmaster or a clown. There
were the financial tight-rope walkers, and the social lion-tamers, and
snake-charmers, and the political acrobats whose falls were unsoftened
by any kind of network. There were heat and dust and discomfort, and
weary, wretched animals looking out of cages at other weary, tortured
animals, that were sometimes scarcely less pachydermatous than
themselves. I know the program we had mapped out, the triumphal entry,
the daring leaps, the cheers,--but was it worth while? After all, does
one care to be the champion bareback rider in life's hippodrome?
Nature swept away my sawdust ring, but she gave me heaven for a
canopy, earth for an arena, you for a queen. At times I am disposed to
take a fatalist view of the case, and think that God, or Nature, knew
there was no more to be done with the earth, not so much because of
its wickedness, as on account of its stupidity and cruelty. All my
plans had centered in a political career, and yet how could a man
touch politics and remain undefiled? Yes, I know there were honorable
men in politics, but they were lonely, and they hated with an
unspeakable hatred all the means that were used to keep them there.
And there were any number of men who had been honorable once. When a
man becomes possessed by the desire of place, his backbone becomes
elastic, and he stoops to things of which he had believed himself
incapable. I don't know what it is, but it weakens a man's moral
fibre, and breaks down the tissues of his will, and gives him mental
astigmatism. How dare I say I should have been any better than the
rest?"

"Do you remember your address, a year ago Flag Day, and the old man
with the little bronze button of the Civil War veteran, who stood in
front, and shook hands with you afterwards, with tears running down
his face? And the applause? Can you honestly say that you find 'to
utter love more sweet than praise'? You have told me of your dream of
a home, but Emerson said, 'not even a home in the heart of one we love
can satisfy the awful soul that dwells in clay.' Can it satisfy you,
who hoped and expected so much?"

He hesitated and