Fabian was good as far as he went, but he was a coward. You"--
a look of fury entered the dark eyes--"you were no coward, but you didn't
care a damn. You wanted to paddle about with muck of imagination--" he
pointed to the statue on the table.
"Why, your business has been great because of your imagination," was the
retort. "You saw things ahead with the artist's eye. You planned with
the artist's mind; and brought forth what's to your honour and credit--
and the piling up of your bank balance. The only thing that could have
induced me to work in your business is the looking ahead and planning,
seeing the one thing to be played off against the other, the fighting of
strong men, the politics, all the forces which go to make or break your
business. Well, I didn't do it, and I'm not sorry. I have a gift which,
by training and development, will give me a place among the men who do
things, if I have good luck--good luck!"
He dwelt upon these last words with an intensity which dreaded something.
There was retrospection in his eyes. A cloud seemed to cross his face.
A strong step crunching the path stopped the conversation, and presently
there appeared the figure of Tarboe. Certainly the new life had not
changed Tarboe, had not altered his sturdy, strenuous nature.
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