Pecunnia non olet,--a Roman emperor said that. Perhaps my
great heroes in Plutarch were no more than such men, fine now only
because they are distant; perhaps after all this Socialism to which I
had been drawn was only a foolish dream, only the more foolish because
all its promises were conditionally true. Morris and these others
played with it wittingly; it gave a zest, a touch of substance, to their
aesthetic pleasures. Never would there be good faith enough to bring
such things about. They knew it; every one, except a few young fools,
knew it. As I crossed the corner of St. James's Park wrapped in thought,
I dodged back just in time to escape a prancing pair of greys. A stout,
common-looking woman, very magnificently dressed, regarded me from the
carriage with a scornful eye. "No doubt," thought I, "a pill-vendor's
wife...."
Running through all my thoughts, surging out like a refrain, was my
uncle's master-stroke, his admirable touch of praise: "Make it all
slick--and then make it go Woosh. I know you can! Oh! I KNOW you can!"
IV
Ewart as a moral influence was unsatisfactory.
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