Is that your
meaning?"
George murmured in admiration: "In beautiful words that is my
meaning." He paused. Now the bolt was to be shot, and he nerved
himself against the strain. He fired: "I have a suggestion."
"Propound."
No further need for notes. George pushed back his cuffs; gulped the
agitation that swelled dry and suffocating in his mouth. "This is my
suggestion. Because I have had experience in the reading of faces;
because I wish to make recompense for my share in the catastrophe of
Mrs. Major's presence; because--"
"You are drowning beneath reasons. Cease bubbling. Strike to the
surface."
George had not been drowning. He had been creeping gingerly from
stepping-stone to stepping-stone. The endeavour had been to come as
close as possible to the big rock upon which he intended to spring.
The less the distance of the leap the more remote the chance of
slipping down the rock and being whirled off in swift water. It is a
method of progression by which, in the race of existence, many lives
are lost. The timid will hobble from stone to stone, landing at each
forward point more and yet more shaky in the knees. The torrent roars
about them. Sick they grow and giddy; stepping-stones are green and
slimy; the effort of balancing cannot be unduly prolonged.
Ere ever they feel themselves ready for the leap they slip, go
whirling and drowning downstream past the stepping-stones that are
called Infirmity of Purpose.
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