stained rags on his open colour table. The rush-bottom of his chair resembled a wind-torn thatch.
"One can draw morals from a life like that," I said suddenly. I was thinking rather of Jenkins than of the man I was talking to.
"Why, yes," he said, absently, "I suppose there are men who haven't the knack of getting on."
"It's more than a knack," I said, with unnecessary bitterness. "It's a temperament."
"I think it's a habit, too. It may be acquired, mayn't it?"
"No, no," I fulminated, "it's precisely because it can't be acquired that the best men—the men like . . ." I stopped suddenly, impressed by the idea that the thing was out of tone. I had to assert myself more than I liked in talking to Churchill. Otherwise I should have disappeared. A word from him had the weight of three kingdoms and several colonies behind it, and I was forced to get that out of my head by making conversation a mere matter of temperament. In that I was the stronger. If I wanted to say a thing, I said it; but he was hampered by
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