He did not want to feel sorry for him and yet he could not help doing so.
George's broad shoulders and splendid chest were heaving under the strain of a genuine, real emotion.

Drink was not responsible for his present estimate of himself; it had merely opened the gates to expression.
Simmy's scrutiny took in the fine, powerful body of this incompetent giant,--for he was a giant to Simmy,--and out of his appraisal grew a fresh complaint against the Force that fashions men with such cruel inconsistency.

What would not he perform if he were fashioned like this splendid being?
Why had God given to George Tresslyn all this strength and beauty, to waste and abuse, when He might have divided His gifts with a kindlier hand?
To what heights of attainment in all the enterprises of man would not he have mounted if Nature had but given to him the shell that George Tresslyn occupied?
And why should Nature have put an incompetent, useless dweller into such a splendid house when he would have got on just as well or better perhaps in an insignificant body like his own?
Proportions were wrong, outrageously wrong, grieved Simmy as he studied the man who despised the strength God had given him.

And down in his honest, despairing soul, Simmy Dodge was saying to himself that he would cheerfully give all of his wealth, all of his intelligence, all of his prospects, in exchange for a physical body like George Tresslyn's.

He would court poverty for the privilege of enjoying other triumphs along the road to happiness.
"Why don't you say something ?" demanded George, suddenly looking up.