Things were going well with the three friends. The springs of talk had been released. Young Taswell’s face was red from walking all day in the open; and Stanny had recovered his usual air of mournful dignity. They were talking about Life and so forth in a disconnected way, each bent on expressing himself without much regard for the others. “The world is shared by the two lots,” Wilfred was saying dreamily “lords and slaves. The queerest thing about the situation is that the slaves are as well pleased with their places as the Lords are with theirs. They will fight for the privilege of remaining slaves! All the trouble is made by a third lot, much smaller; I mean the men who wish to be free themselves, and have no particular desire to lord it over anybody. The other two lots join in hating them of course, for different reasons; and never miss a chance of trying to step on them. And of course they generally succeed, since they own the earth between them. That is why the rarest spirits, the men with a bit of Michael or Lucifer in them (those two are so much alike!) so often end as police court bums or beachcombers.” “You seem quite cheerful about this rotten state of affairs,” remarked Stanny. “Oh, the act of talking cheers you,” said Wilfred, grinning. “Thank God! we can still talk about it!” “You’re a good fellow,” said Taswell, a little condescendingly, “but of course that’s all nonsense. The best men are bound to come to the top!” “Oh, well, so long as I’m a good fellow . . . !” said Wilfred, laughing. “You talk all over the place,” objected Taswell. “You don’t follow through. Talking just for the sake of talking; that’s nothing. You must hold fast to certain ideas.” “Those fixed ideas are the rocks in the rapids on which we shatter ourselves,” said Wilfred. “What have we got to hang on to, then?” demanded Taswell. “Nothing! We must let life carry us.” “Oh, look here . . . ! Nobody knows of course what the end is going to be; but I’ve got to know what I’m doing on the way!” “I just enjoy the motion,” said Wilfred, smiling. “You don’t really mean anything you say!” said Taswell, impatiently. “That’s true, in a sense,” said Wilfred. “But there’s a sort of general meaning to be collected out of the whole.” “That’s too misty for me!” Stanny suddenly sprang to Wilfred’s defense. It was one of his most endearing qualities that he would never allow anybody else to abuse Wilfred the way he did himself. “Wilfred is perfectly consistent,” he insisted. “You’ll see that when you know him better. He has constructed a sort of scheme for himself, out of movement, change, balance; give and take; forward and back; and so on. He’s a philosophic chameleon.” They all laughed. “Just the same,” grumbled Taswell, “it destroys everything to say that the best men go to the bottom!” “Your best need not be my best,” said Wilfred. Taswell stared at him in exasperation.