. . or sharp dealing . . . or thickness
of skin. With Mr. Tangye's permission he would cite himself as an
example. He was neither a very robust man, nor, he ventured to say, one
of any marked ability in the other two directions. Yet he had managed to
succeed without, in the process, sacrificing jot or tittle of his
principles; and to-day he held a position that any member of his
profession across the seas might envy him.
"Yes, but till you got there!" cried Tangye. "Hasn't every superfluous
bit of you--every thought of interest that wasn't essential to the
daily grind--been pared off?"
"If," said Mahony stiffening, "if what you mean by that is, have I
allowed my mind to grow narrow and sluggish, I can honestly answer no."
In his heart he denied the charge even more warmly; for, as he spoke, he
saw the great cork-slabs on which hundreds of moths and butterflies made
dazzling spots of colour; saw the sheets of pink blotting-paper between
which his collection of native plants lay pressed; the glass case filled
with geological specimens; his Bible, the margins of which round Genesis
were black with his handwriting; a pile of books on the new marvel
Spiritualism; Colenso's PENTATEUCH; the big black volumes of the ARCANA
COELESTIA; Locke on Miracles: he saw all these things and more. "No, I'm
glad to say I have retained many interests outside my work."
Tangye had taken off his spectacles and was polishing them on a crumpled
handkerchief.
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