"There's Collier," I suggested. "He is different," Ward answered, and I suppose I wanted him to say something like that. We talked for an hour, at least Ward talked and I listened, but during the years to come I always remembered what he said about himself on that night. CHAPTER VII THE INN AT SAMPFORD I do not suppose that my waking thoughts could be called valuable, for my habit is to lie in bed and wonder vaguely what time it is, and if you start the day in that way and write it solemnly on paper you may just as well keep a diary of what you had for luncheon and where you had tea and all that kind of twaddle, which people write because blotting paper is provided on the opposite page. But on the morning following my conversation with Ward I woke up with the sort of feeling which ought to have been of value to some one, because it was such a mixture that I could not stay in bed. It was the kind of sensation with which I wake when I am going to cross the Channel, only it did not make me rush to my window to see how much wind there was. Nothing I have been told is easier in this life than to make a mountain out of a molehill, but in my short experience it is the wretched little molehills which upset me and not the great big things which sweep me away with them. I would rather have to fight one mountain than two molehills any day, you get so much more sympathy after the struggle. But I must admit that it is not always easy to tell when people will sympathize with you, for I remember that my brother was once in a railway accident, and though he got nothing more than a slight jolt he was considered a hero for a long time, while, a few days later, I sat upon a pin and hurt myself quite badly, but was told by my nurse not to be silly. During that morning I had a most disagreeable experience. For the first time in my life I was conscious that I had done something for which there was not the least shadow of an excuse, and I found myself trying to guess what my feelings would have been had I been a winner instead of a loser at roulette. There is nothing very profitable in trying to imagine what would have happened if things had turned out differently, at the best it is a waste of time, but all the same it is a game which I, and others I know, play very often. I came to the conclusion that had I won I should have been rather pleased with myself, it is so easy to excuse oneself for winning money, while losing it seems to be foolishly immoral. I made no resolutions for the future, because on the few occasions I have tried to fortify myself in that way, something has occurred to upset me, and Mr. Sandyman, who was my housemaster at Cliborough and very wise, told me once that the weaker the man the more frequent his resolutions. He did not believe so much in pledges and promises as in a boy's honour; if a boy had not a sense of honour no promise on earth could be of any real use to him.