The artistic impulse in both of you is the same at
bottom. If you'd let it have it's own way, you'd have taken, not
to this, I'm sure, but to painting. But Cyril painted, so, to make
yourself different, you went in for music. That's you all over!
You always have such a hankering after being what you are not!"
"Well, hang it all, a man wants to have SOME individuality," Guy
answered apologetically. "He doesn't like to be a mere copy or
repetition of his brother."
Nevitt reflected quietly to himself that Cyril never wanted to be
different from Guy, his was by far the stronger nature of the two:
he was content to be himself without regard to his brother. But
Nevitt didn't say so. Indeed, why should he? He merely went on
playing a few disconnected bars of a very lively, hopeful utopian
sort of a tune--a tune all youth and health, and go and gaiety--as
he interjected from time to time some brief financial remarks on the
numerous good strokes he'd pulled off of late in his transactions
in the City.
"Can't do them in my own name, you know," he observed lightly, at
last laying down his bow, and replacing the dainty white rose in his
left top buttonhole. "Not official for a bank EMPLOYE to operate
on the Stock Exchange.
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