or the fine linen of the next man. Next man — that's it. I have met so many men,” he pursued; with momentary sadness — “ met them too with a certain — certain — impact, let us say ; like this fellow, for instance — and in each case all I could see was merely the human being. A confounded demo- cratic quality of vision which may be better than total blindness, but has been of no advantage to me — I can assure you. Men expect one to take into account their fine linen. But I never could get up any enthusiasm about these things. Oh ! It’s a failing ; it's a failing ; and then comes a soft even- ing ; a lot of men too indolent for whist — and a story. ...”
He paused again to wait for an encouraging remark, perhaps, but nobody spoke; only the host, as if reluctantly performing a duty, murmured —
“You are so subtle, Marlow.”
“Who? I?” said Marlow in a low voice. “Oh no ! But he was ; and try as I may for the success of this yarn I am missing innumerable shades — they were so fine, so difficult to render in colourless words. Because he complicated matters by being so simple, too — the simplest poor devil ! . . . By Jove ! he was amazing. There he sat telling me that just as I saw him before my eyes he wouldn't be afraid to face anything — and believing in it too. I tell you it was fabulously innocent and it was enormous, enormous ! I watched him covertly, just as though I had suspected him of an intention to take a jolly good rise out of me. He was confident that, on the square, ‘ on the square, mind ! ’ there was nothing he couldn't meet. Ever since he had been ‘ so high ’ —
