of others. They bide their time; they are all consideration and
delicacy; they are never importunate or tiresome; if they fail,
they accept the failure as though it were a piece of undeserved
good fortune; they never have a grievance; they simply wipe up the
spilt milk, and say no more about it; baffled at one point, they go
quietly round the corner, and continue their quest. They never for
a moment really consider any one's interests except their own; even
their generous impulses are deliberately calculated for the sake of
the artistic effect. Such people make it hard to believe in
disinterested virtue; yet they join with the meek in inheriting the
earth, and their prosperity seems the sign of Divine approval.

But apart from the definite steps that the ordinary, moderately
interesting, moderately successful man may take, in the direction
of a cure for egotism, the best cure, after all, for all faults, is
a humble desire to be different. That is the most transforming
power in the world; we may fail a thousand times, but as long as we
are ashamed of our failure, as long as we do not helplessly
acquiesce, as long as we do not try to comfort ourselves for it by
a careful parade of our other virtues, we are in the pilgrim's
road. It is a childish fault, after all. I watched to-day a party
of children at play. One detestable little boy, the clumsiest and
most incapable of the party, spent the whole time in climbing up a
step and jumping from it, while he entreated all the others to see
how far he could project himself. There was not a child there who
could not have jumped twice as far, but they were angelically
patient and sympathetic with the odious little wretch. It seemed to
me a sad, small parable of what we so many of us are engaged all
our lives long in doing. The child had no eyes for and no thoughts
of the rest; he simply reiterated his ridiculous performance, and