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CH. I He paused. "Never wrote for his refs," he said, in the deep tone proper to a moral tragedy, and then, after a pause—"Enlisted!"

"Ah!" said Coote.

"And often," he said, after a pause, "It's just the most spirited chaps, just the chaps one likes best, who Go Wrong."

"It's temptation," Kipps remarked.

He glanced at Coote, leant forward, knocked the ash from his cigarette Into the mighty fender. "That's jest it," he said; "you get tempted. Before you know where you are."

"Modern life," said Coote, "is so—complex. It isn't everyone is Strong. Half the young fellows who go wrong, aren't really bad."

"That's jest it," said Kipps.

"One gets a tone from one's surroundings"

"That's exactly it," said Kipps.

He meditated. "I picked up with a chap," he said. "A Nacter. Leastways he writes plays. Clever fellow. But"

He implied extensive moral obloquy by a movement of his head. "Of course It's seeing life," he added.

Coote pretended to understand the full implications of Kipps' remark. "Is it worth it?" he asked.

"That's jest it," said Kipps.

He decided to give some more. "One gets talking," he said. "Then it's ave a drink!' Old Methusaleh four stars—and where are you? I'' been