"
"Yes."
"And I have been asking myself whether I have not, perhaps, held you
back, held myself back, from all that is worth having in life."
Julian looked troubled.
"From all that is not worth having, old boy," he said.
But he looked troubled. When Valentine spoke like this he felt as a man
who stands at a garden gate and gazes out into the world, and is stirred
with a thrill of anticipation and of desire to leap out from the green
and shadowy close, where trees are and flowers, into the dust and heat
where passion hides as in a nest, and unspoken things lie warm. Julian
was vaguely afraid of himself. It is dangerous to lean on any one,
however strong. Having met Valentine on the threshold of life, Julian
had never learned to walk alone. He trusted another, instead of trusting
himself. He had never forged his own sword. When Siegfried sang at his
anvil he sang a song of all the greatness of life. Julian was notably
strong as to his muscles. He had arms of iron, and the blood raced in
his veins, but he had never forged his sword. Mistrust of himself was
as a phantom that walked with him unless Valentine drove it away.
"I thought you had got over that absurd feeling, Val," he said. "I
thought you were content with your soul.
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