The thought of that far-off day made
him say to her, rather futilely:
"How is Denzil? How is Denzil?"
There was swift surprise in her face. She seemed dumbfounded, and then
she said:
"Denzil! He's all right, but he does not like your Mr. Tarboe."
"My Mr. Tarboe! Where do I come in?"
"Well, he's got what you ought to have had," was the reply. "What you
would have had, weren't you a foolish fellow."
"I still don't understand how he is my Mr. Tarboe."
"Well, he wouldn't have been in your father's life if it weren't for you;
if you had done what your father wished you to do, had--"
"Had sold myself for gold--my freedom, my health, everything to help my
father's business! I don't see why he should expect that what he's doing
some one else should do--"
"That Belloc would do, that Belloc and Fabian would do," said the girl.
"Yes, that's it--what they two would do. There's no genius in it, though
my father comes as near being a genius as any man alive. But there's a
screw loose somewhere. . . . It wasn't good enough for me. It didn't give
me a chance--in things that are of the mind, the spirit--my particular
gifts, whatever they are. They would have chafed against that life."
"In other words, you're a genius, which your father isn't," the girl said
almost sarcastically.
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