"As how?"

"My life," I said, "it's a mess, an infinite mess."

"She's been a stupid girl, George," he said; "I partly understand. But
you're quit of her now, practically, and there's just as good fish in
the sea--"

"Oh! it's not that!" I cried. "That's only the part that shows. I'm
sick--I'm sick of all this damned rascality."

"Eh? Eh?" said my uncle. "WHAT--rascality?"

"Oh, YOU know. I want some STUFF, man. I want something to hold on to. I
shall go amok if I don't get it. I'm a different sort of beast from
you. You float in all this bunkum. _I_ feel like a man floundering in a
universe of soapsuds, up and downs, east and west. I can't stand it. I
must get my foot on something solid or--I don't know what."

I laughed at the consternation in his face.

"I mean it," I said. "I've been thinking it over. I've made up my mind.
It's no good arguing. I shall go in for work--real work. No! this isn't
work; it's only laborious cheating. But I've got an idea! It's an old
idea--I thought of years ago, but it came back to me. Look here! Why
should I fence about with you? I believe the time has come for flying to
be possible. Real flying!"

"Flying!"