“Shall I see whether the Air Line has anything in your line, Phil?  No?  Well, what are you going to do?”

“I don’t exactly know what I shall do. . . .  If I had capital—­enough—­I think I’d start in making bulk and dense powders—­all sorts; gun-cotton, nitro-powders—­”

“You mean you’d like to go on with your own invention—­Chaosite?”

“I’d like to keep on experimenting with it if I could afford to.  Perhaps I will.  But it’s not yet a commercial possibility—­if it ever is to be.  I wish I could control it; the ignition is simultaneous and absolutely complete, and there is not a trace of ash, not an unburned or partly burned particle.  But it’s not to be trusted, and I don’t know what happens to it after a year’s storage.”

For a while they discussed the commercial possibilities of Chaosite, and how capital might be raised for a stock company; but Selwyn was not sanguine, and something of his mental depression returned as he sat there by the curtainless window, his head on his closed hand, looking out into the sunny street.

“Anyway,” said Lansing, “you’ve nothing to worry over.”

“No, nothing,” assented Selwyn listlessly.

After a silence Lansing added:  “But you do a lot of worrying all the same, Phil.”

Selwyn flushed up and denied it.

“Yes, you do!  I don’t believe you realise how much of the time you are out of spirits.”

“Does it impress you that way?” asked Selwyn, mortified; “because I’m really all right.”

“Of course you are, Phil; I know it, but you don’t seem to realise it.  You’re morbid, I’m afraid.”

“You’ve been talking to my sister!”

“What of it?  Besides, I knew there was something the matter—­”

“You know what it is, too.  And isn’t it enough to subdue a man’s spirits occasionally?”

“No,” said Lansing—­“if you mean your—­mistake—­two years ago.  That isn’t enough to spoil life for a man.  I’ve wanted to tell you so for a long time.”

And, as Selwyn said nothing:  “For Heaven’s sake make up your mind to enjoy your life!  You are fitted to enjoy it.  Get that absurd notion out of your head that you’re done for—­that you’ve no home life in prospect, no family life, no children—­”

Selwyn turned sharply, but the other went on:  “You can swear at me if you like, but you’ve no business to go through the world cuddling your own troubles closer and closer and squinting at everybody out of disenchanted eyes.  It’s selfish, for one thing; you’re thinking altogether too much about yourself.”

Selwyn, too annoyed to answer, glared at his friend.

“Oh, I know you don’t like it, Phil, but what I’m saying may do you good.  It’s fine physic, to learn what others think about you; as for me, you can’t mistake my friendship—­or your sister’s—­or Miss Erroll’s, or Mr. Gerard’s.  And one and all are of one opinion, that you have everything before you, including domestic happiness, which you care for more than anything.  And there is no reason why you should not have it—­no reason why you should not feel perfectly free to marry, and have a bunch of corking kids.  It’s not only your right, it’s your business; and you’re selfish if you don’t!”