of my other
book, and all their grand prophecies, the critics would have had to
praise up this one too; and I should have been drifted back again into
being a poet. Now, as I wrote you several times--only, of course, you
thought it all humbug and affectation--such a poet as I could be I am
determined I will not be. It was an act of self-defence--defence of
whatever of good there may be in me."

Baldwin groaned. "Defence of fiddlesticks! Defence of your vanity!"

"I don't think so," replied Cyril, "and I don't think you understand me
at all in this instance. There was no vanity in this matter. You know
that since some time I have been asking myself what moral right a man
has to consume his life writing verses, when there is so much evil to
remove, and every drop of thought or feeling we have is needed to make
the great river which is to wash out this Augean stable of a world. I
tried to put the doubt behind me, and to believe in Art for Art's own
sake, and such bosh. But the doubt pricked me. And when suddenly my
uncle left me all he had, I felt I must decide. As long as I was a mere
penniless creature I might write poetry, because there seemed nothing
else for me to do. But now it is different. This money and the power it
gives are mine only as long as I live; after my death they may go to
some blackguard; so, while I have them, I must give all my energies to
doing with them all the good that I possibly can."

"In that case better give them over to people who know best what to do
with them--societies or hospitals, or that sort of thing--and write your
verses as before. For I don't think your thoughts will add much to the
value of your money, Cyril. You've not a bit of practical head. Of
course you may, if you choose, look on idly while other people are
using your money. But I don't think it is specially worth doing."

Cyril sighed, hesitated, and then burst out rapidly--

"But it is the only thing I _can_ do--do you understand? I can't write
poetry any more. Perhaps that may be the only thing for which I was ever
fit, but I am fit for it no longer. I cannot do what I have got to despise
and detest. For I do despise and detest the sort of poetry which I should
write--mere ornamental uselessness, so much tapestry work or inlaid
upholstery. You believe in Art for Art's own sake--Goethianism--that
sort of thing, I know. It is all very well for you, who have an active
practical life with your Maremma drainings and mine d