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Updated: June 27, 2025
"That was the second high light," he continued, "and the third did not come until fifteen years later. Bewsher went into the Indian army his family had ideas of service and Morton into a banking-house in London. And there, as deliberately as he had taken them up, he laid aside for the time being all the social perquisites which he had with so much pains acquired.
We say those things, but we don't mean them. If you sat next to Morton at dinner you'd like him; but as for Bewsher you'd despise him, as all right-minded women despise a failure. Oh, no; you'd prefer Morton." "Perhaps you're right," sighed Mrs. Malcolm; "pirates are fascinating, I suppose." She arose to her feet. Out of the shadows Lady Masters advanced to meet her.
I think Bewsher has rather the best of it, don't you?" "I I had never thought of it in quite that light," said Sir John, and followed Mrs. Malcolm. They went into the drawing-room beyond across a hallway, and up a half-flight of stairs, and through glass doors. "Play for us!" said Mrs.
That's true for the big people; for the small it usually spells death. They falter on methods. They are too afraid of unimportant details. His insistence had its results even more speedily than he had hoped. Before long the girl, too, was urging Bewsher on to effort. It isn't the first time goodness has sent weakness to the devil.
"To begin with, of course, Morton hated Bewsher and all he represented, hated him in a way that only a boy of his nature can; and then, one day I don't know exactly when it could have been, probably a year or two after he had gone up to school he began to see quite clearly what this hate meant; began to see that for such as he to hate the Bewshers of the world was the sheerest folly a luxury far beyond his means.
The other thing that hurt him was when, a few months later, he discovered that his wife still loved Bewsher and always would. And that" Sir John picked up the broken rose again "is, I suppose, the end of the story." There was a moment's silence and then Burnaby lifted his pointed chin. "By George!" he said, "it is interesting to know how things really happen, isn't it?
On the one side Morton there's strength, sheer, undiluted power, the thing that runs the world; and on the other Bewsher, the ordinary man, with all his mixed-up ideas of right and wrong and the impossible, confused thing he calls a 'code' Bewsher, and later on the girl. She too is part of the allegory. She represents what shall I say? A composite portrait of the ordinary young woman?
There came, finally, a very unpleasant evening. This too was in April; April a year after Bewsher's visit to Morton's chambers, only this time the scene was laid in an office. Bewsher had put a check on the desk.
The thing came in upon him slowly, warmingly, like the breeze that stirred the curtains. He felt himself, as never before, a man. You can see him sitting back in his chair, in the smoke and the noise and the foolish singing, cool, his eyes a little closed. He knew now that he had passed the level of these men; yes, even the shining mark Bewsher had set. He had gone on, while they had stood still.
"She is like a mist," thought Mrs. Malcolm. "Exactly like a rather faint mist." Burnaby leaned over and lit a cigarette at one of the candles. "And, of course," he said quietly, without raising his head, "the curious thing is that this fellow Morton, despite all his talk of power, in the end is merely a ghost of Bewsher, after all, isn't he?"
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