He had fluttered fitfully from business to Blaines College;
from the college to the _Post_; before long he would flutter on from the
_Post_ to something else--always falling short, always secretly
disappointed, everywhere a failure as a man, though few might know it
but himself. West's trouble, in fact, was that he was not a man at all.
He was weakest where a real man is strongest. He was merely a chameleon
taking his color from whatever he happened to light upon; a handsome
boat which could never get anywhere because it had no rudder; an
ornamental butterfly driving aimlessly before the nearest breeze. He
meant well, in a general way, but his good intentions proved descending
paving-stones because he was constitutionally incapable of meaning
anything very hard.
West had had everything in the beginning except money; and he had the
faculty of making all of that he wanted. Queed--she found that name
still clinging to him in her thoughts--had had nothing in the beginning
except his fearless honesty. In everything else that a man should he, he
had seemed to her painfully destitute.
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