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Updated: May 2, 2025
Galloway, with an old man's garrulity and a confirmed moral poseur's eagerness about appearances, began to unfold his virtuous reasons for the impending break with Burroughs the industrial and financial war out of which he expected to come doubly rich and all but supreme. Midway he stopped. "You are not listening," said he sharply to the young man. Their eyes met. Norman's eyes were twinkling.
And he had an instinctive reliance on her fellow poseur's ability to detect it. A few days later, when he found he could safely leave the rancho alone, he rode to Fair Plains. The floods were out along the turnpike road, and even seemed to have increased since his last journey. The face of the landscape had changed again. One of the lower terraces had become a wild mere of sedge and reeds.
The poseur's mask which he habitually wore slipped aside and the real man peeped out. "Yours ought to be more than attempts," he said quietly. "It's in you to do something really big. And you must do it. If not, you'll go to pieces. You don't understand yourself." "And do you profess to?" "A little." He smiled down at her. "The gods have given you the golden gift the creative faculty.
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