Nothing was
wrong with them, save that they held a point of view which was at
variance with his own.
It was a rude awakening. Every moment he was up against something new.
There were quite a lot of things, he discovered, which a fellow ought
to know, and doesn't. Too many of them to assimilate with comfort. They
crowded in upon him and unsettled his mind. He kept up a brave
exterior, but his inner core was suffering; he was no longer certain of
himself. He became easily swayed and changeful in his moods. That sure
touch in lyrics, as in daily life, was deserting him. His dreams were
not coming true. He was not going to set the Thames on fire with poetry
or anything else. He would probably be a failure. Aware of this
weakness, he looked up to what was strong. Everything was different
from himself, everything forceful, emphatic and clear-cut, exercised a
fascination upon him. He tried in an honest, groping fashion, to learn
what it was all about. That was why he had taken to Edgar Marten, the
antithesis of himself, bright but dogmatic, a slovenly little plebeian
but a man who after all had a determined, definite point of view.
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