"
"The habit of pride."
"Yes. And then--then we are lords of the world."
"All this, Billy," said Benham, "I steadfastly believe."
"I've seen it all now," said Prothero. "Lord! how clearly I see it!
The intellectual is either a prince or he is a Greek slave in a
Roman household. He's got to hold his chin up or else he becomes--
even as these dons we see about us--a thing that talks appointments,
a toady, a port-wine bibber, a mass of detail, a conscious maker of
neat sayings, a growing belly under a dwindling brain. Their
gladness is drink or gratified vanity or gratified malice, their
sorrow is indigestion or--old maid's melancholy. They are the lords
of the world who will not take the sceptre. . . . And what I want
to say to you, Benham, more than anything else is, YOU go on--YOU
make yourself equestrian. You drive your horse against Breeze's,
and go through the fire and swim in the ice-cold water and climb the
precipice and drink little and sleep hard. And--I wish I could do
so too."
"But why not?"
"Because I can't. Now I admit I've got shame in my heart and pride
in my head, and I'm strung up.
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