“This young man seems to meet the hereditary requirement, certainly.” “Yes, yes, he was a fool, without any doubt. Examine the face, the shape of the head, the expression. It’s all fool, fool, fool, straight through.” “Thanks,—” said Tracy, involuntarily. “Thanks?” “I mean for explaining it to me. Go on, please.” “As I was saying, fool is printed all over the face. A body can even read the _de_tails.” “What do they say?” “Well, added up, he is a wobbler.” “A which?” “Wobbler. A person that’s always taking a firm stand about something or other—kind of a Gibraltar stand, _he_ thinks, for unshakable fidelity and everlastingness—and then, inside of a little while, he begins to wobble; no more Gibraltar there; no, sir, a mighty ordinary commonplace weakling wobbling around on stilts. That’s Lord Berkeley to a dot, you can _see_ it—_look_ at that sheep! But,—why are you blushing like sunset! Dear sir, have I unwittingly offended in some way?” “Oh, no indeed, no indeed. Far from it. But it always makes me blush to hear a man revile his own blood.” He said to himself, “How strangely his vagrant and unguided fancies have hit upon the truth. By accident, he has described me. I am that contemptible thing. When I left England I thought I knew myself; I thought I was a very Frederick the Great for resolution and staying capacity; whereas in truth I am just a Wobbler, simply a Wobbler. Well—after all, it is at least creditable to _have_ high ideals and give birth to lofty resolutions; I will allow myself that comfort.” Then he said, aloud, “Could this sheep, as you call him, breed a great and self-sacrificing idea in his head, do you think? Could he meditate such a thing, for instance, as the renunciation of the earldom and its wealth and its glories, and voluntary retirement to the ranks of the commonalty, there to rise by his own merit or remain forever poor and obscure?” “_Could_ he? Why, look at him—look at this simpering self-righteous mug! There is your answer. It’s the very thing he would think of. And he would start in to do it, too.” “And then?” “He’d wobble.” “And back down?” “Every time.” “Is that to happen with _all_ my—I mean would that happen to _all_ his high resolutions?” “Oh certainly—certainly. It’s the Rossmore of it.” “Then this creature was fortunate to die! Suppose, for argument’s sake, that I was a Rossmore, and—” “It can’t be done.” “Why?”