im pass him by. Men of far inferior capabilities distance him in
the race. Perhaps too he has made another misstep, and has a wife who
sympathizes neither with his tastes nor his trials: who has no
comprehension of him whatever, save that he is a being whose business it
is to love her and furnish her with spending money. The beauty which
fascinated him has grown faded and insipid. The pretty coquetries that
won him pall upon him; he is absolutely alone with the burden of life
pressing heavily upon him. Is it strange that he is mastered in the
battle and finally falls beneath the world's pitiless tread? This is a
sad little picture, but it is an every-day one, and the world goes on
its way as before.

"What matters it that a lonely, dissipated man has lain down in sorrow
to rise no more! The world cannot stop to weep over the remains of the
departed one it has trampled upon. Those whose business it is can take
them on one side, lay them away under the green sod out of sight, shed a
tear perhaps, and pass on until their turn comes to lay down wearily, go
to sleep, and be laid away. The world chides, the world laughs, but it
takes no cognizance of the grief--

"'That inward breaks and shows no cause without,
_Why_ the man dies.'

"Yet there is but the difference of a point in the game between the
victim and the hero. The cards are the same, or the victim, perhaps,
_may_ hold the best trumps, but he plays recklessly, loses his point,
loses his game, loses all! On such slight things does human destiny
hinge. The hero has all his resources at command--his game dimly
outlined. He knows his winning cards, and he plays them skilfully.

"Every point tells. Nothing is left to chance that can be accomplished
by foresight. He wins the game. He wins the prizes. He has the mastery
of life. The world takes off its hat to him. Fortune and people smile
upon him. Not that he is better than others--very likely he is not so
good. But the world counts results. Becky Sharp is not a model, but
Becky Sharp is a power. The world does not like her in the abstract, but
it likes her dinners, it courts her smiles, it fawns upon her, it
showers its good things upon her, all because _she has mastered it_.
Becky Sharp is not a model. Her aims are unworthy, and her means
unscrupulous; but she reads us a lesson in fact, in foresight, in
energy, in the subtle art of making the most of limited resources. So
long as life is a game, it is worth s