"
"It's not brains that matter nowadays--it's money. What do you get by
brains? A civil service appointment--and a pension of seven hundred a
year. What's the good of slaving for that?"
Faversham turned to his companion with a smile, in which however there
was no good-humour. It made Tatham disagreeably conscious of his own
wealth.
"Well, of course, there are the prizes--"
"A few. So few that they don't count. A man may grind for years, and get
passed over or forgotten--just by a shave--at the end. I've seen that
happen often. Or you get on swimmingly for a while, and everybody
supposes you're going to romp in; and then something crops up you never
thought of. Some boss takes a dislike to you--or you make a mistake, and
cut your own throat. And there you are--pulled!"
Tatham was silent a moment, his blunt features expressing some
bewilderment. Then he said--awkwardly:
"So you don't really know what you're going to take up?"
Faversham lit another cigarette.
"Oh, well, I have some friends--and some ideas. If I once get a foothold,
a beginning--I daresay I could make money like other people. Every idiot
one meets seems to be doing it."
"Do you want to go into politics--or something of that kind?"
"I want to remain my own master, and do the things I want to do--and not
the things I must do," laughed Faversham. "That seems to me the dividing
line in life--whether you are under another man's orders or your own. And
broadly speaking it's the line between poverty and money.
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