In the light of the Craig-and-Whitaker analysis, which dovetailed in the similarity of their venom, the details might, he fancied with a lifting of his brows, be classified under three general headings: youth, irresponsibility and a romantic attitude toward the truth.
The envious charge of youth he attributed instantly to the thinning of John Whitaker's grayish hair, and felt better.

In irresponsibility he read, agreeably, needful temperament.

And his romantic attitude toward the truth was merely a brilliant overplus of imagination without which life would be insufferably dull.
He read the list again with colors flying and drum beating victory.
Though singly he could refute each item, an unguarded perusal when he felt complacent, brought the hot blood back to his face in a rush of mortification and dismay.
With a curse he flung the book across the room.

Then unreasonably he went after it and wrote at the end: "Life is a battle.

I do not fight.
And life is not an individual adventure." The final sentence startled him most of all.
Again he read it all and the memory of Brian, white, aggressive, desperately intent upon escape, came between him and his quest of self-content.