eeling you get out of it; and the highest types of feeling
are mystical and intellectual. I only knew yesterday what a
perversion he really was. I saw something that I'd never seen
before--he had a sort of paroxysm--like a bad _rigor_; something to
do with the drug-habit, I s'pose--"

A powerful desire came over me to say: "I knew all about his fits
years ago," but it melted before the memory of a far-away promise.
At this point, too, I became perfectly sure that, although Doe's
sudden self-revelation was an intense and genuine outburst, yet he
was sufficiently his lovable self to feel pride in his easy use of
technical terms like _paroxysm_ and _rigor_.

"It frightened me," continued he. "It's only cowardice that's made
me cut with him. I know my motives are all rotten, but no matter; I
was gloriously happy half-an-hour ago, when I had made the
resolution. And now I'm melancholy. That's why I'm talking about
being a great man. You must be melancholy to feel great."

As he said the words, Doe leapt to his feet and unconsciously struck
his breast with a fine action.

"And I sometimes _know_ I could be great. I feel it surging in me.
But I shall only dream it all. I haven't the cold, calculating power
of Penny, for instance. He's the only one of us who'll set the
Thames on fire. At present, Rupert, I've but one goal; and that is
to win the Horace Prize before I leave. If I can do that, I'll
believe again in my power to make something of my life."

Sec.2

I fear I'm a very ignoble character, for this conversation, instead
of filling me with pain at Doe's deviations, only gave me a selfish
elation in the thought that I had utterly routed my shadowy rival,
Freedham, and won back my brilliant twin, who could talk thus
familiarly about mysticism. And now there only remained the very
concrete Fillet to be driven in disorder from the field.

CHAPTER IX

WATERLOO OPENS

Sec.1

And here begins the record of my Waterloo with Fillet.

One June morning of the following year all we Bramhallites were
assembled in the Preparation Room for our weekly issue of "Bank" or
pocket-money; we were awaiting the arrival of Fillet, our
house-master, with his jingling cash-box. Soon he would enter and,
having elaborately enthroned himself at his desk, proceed to ask
each of us how much "Bank" he required, and to deliberate, when the
sum was proposed, whether the boy's account would stand so large a
draft. The boy would arg